


Adventure After The Night Before

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Glorious Milk Drinker [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Daedric Quests, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Heroine's Journey, Lover's comfort, Markarth, Mentor/Protégé, Rescue Missions, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Friendship, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Discovery, Self-Hatred, Team Bonding, Thu'um, house of horrors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 21:45:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5431931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his best friend Torvar has disappeared following a rather embarrassing drinking game with a strange man named Sam, Athis of the Companions must find him and bring him back. He is accompanied on his journey by his apprentice, a green, timid Nord recruit named Sveta, who is not only prone to blundering and sobbing, but also has an overpowering crush on her mentor. The problem is (at least, Athis keeps telling himself that it's a problem), the feeling is not exactly unrequited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

'Scrib, you brainless n'wah! Leave me alone, blast it! I can walk on my own!'   
  
Was he shouting? Perhaps; the pain from the thousand needles sinking into his temples made it difficult for Athis to hear the sound of his own voice.   
  
The small warm hand holding him by the forearm loosened its grip obediently; taking a deep, resolute breath, he made a broad stride forward - and swayed, the ground spinning away from beneath his feet. Instinctively, frantically, he groped for support - and found it... a thin, bony shoulder, barely protected by the battered leather armour that some other Companion had worn long ago. Yet again, for the hundredth time in the past few hours, his blundering, ever-blushing Nord apprentice had caught him when he was about to fall. And yet again, he found himself unable to look her in the face. Each time he tried, he was stopped by silent, seething anger. This anger was not directed at her, as the poor child must have thought... he could tell it by the persistent, choking stammer in her voice and the echo of suppressed tears in her strained breath. It was directed at himself.  
  
He should have known better than let that shifty black-robed stranger at the inn drag him and Torvar into his accursed drinking game. Some best friend he was! He should have stopped Torvar before it was too late. That Nord was like a big gullible bearded child - wave a bottle of free liquor at him, and he'll follow you anywhere. He had happily allowed into the stranger to ensnare him - and Athis. Together, under the influence of the stranger's 'special brew', they had reduced themselves to a detestable, animal-like state... And now Torvar was gone - dragged off by that son of a nix hound into the night, Hulda the innkeeper had told them - and Athis was stuck in the middle of nowhere with his apprentice, obstinately trying to look for his wayward friend - despite a wild, pulsing flame devouring his head and his own body floating somewhere in the outer realms, far apart from him.  
  
He had slept till noon; now the day was slowly crawling towards the sunset - and they had barely made it past the guard tower. And all that time, _all that time_ , the girl had not said a word of protest. She had quietly suffered through his fits of helpless rage and onsets of sickness; she had loosened his hair while he was passed out, to at least somehow subdue his headache; she had helped him wash his swollen, burning face and held him by the shoulders while, torn apart by gripping spasms, he was losing last afternoon's lunch; she had let him lean on her, and pull her down to the ground with his weight, and shower her with curses. So meek. So patient. So... caring. When she should have been repelled, disgusted; when she should have felt as much bitter hatred towards him as he did towards himself... But no, instead of shunning him, like the abhorrent, beastly drunk that he was, she enveloped him in warm, motherly affection that he had not earned...  
  
  
'S-sera...' her quiet voice slashed at him like a blade, making him writhe in agony and claw at his forehead with his fingernails. 'M-maybe we should go back? You need a proper rest'.  
  
Wincing, screwing up his eyes and tearing them open again, Athis forced himself to shake his head.  
  
'We must... find... Torvar...' he mouthed. 'I am fine... Just... give me... a moment...'  
  
Slowly, awkwardly, he sank down onto a nearby rock and allowed his eyelids to slide shut. The world around him was swallowed up by warm, soft darkness, till nothing remained but the needles in his head. Somewhere far off, in another plane of existence, he could hear voices. One seemed to belong to his whimpering little Scrib; another was completely unfamiliar, silky, sly, with a purring Khajiiti accent... The voices grazed the surface of his mind but did penetrate it, muffled, unreal, dream-like...  
  
 _'Ri'saad can see this one's friend has had a long night. Risaad knows how it feels, yes. He might have a remedy for this grave, grave ailment in stock - if this one is willing to pay the price for it'.  
  
'Of c-c-course! H-how much?'  
  
'A hundred septims'.  
  
'But... I...'  
  
'Tsk, tsk, tsk! Would this one rather see her friend suffer - because of her greed?'_  
  
The voices faded; losing his last grip on reality, Athis plunged head-first into a dream. _His dream._ Persistent, haunting. The dream he had started having almost every night shortly after Skjor stunned him with the news that Scrib was to become his apprentice.  
  
As countless times before, he found himself standing opposite Scrib in the middle of the meadhall. She was wearing the simple pale-yellow dress he best remembered her in, a grimy oversized apron concealing her narrow chest and reed-like waist, making her seem sturdier than she actually was. Her cheeks, touched by a soft flush of colour, were like freshly fallen snow basking in the rays of the rising sun; her hair glowed like melted gold in the firelight; and in her grey eyes, there was the cool, fresh transparency of a mountain spring. He stepped towards her, and a fleeting shadow of fear slid across her thin, childish face. To reassure her that she would come to no harm, he took her hand in his; and, light as a butterfly, a small smile fluttered down to the corner of her mouth and lingered there... Taking great care not to frighten it off, he leaned forward and cupped his free hand underneath her chin - and kissed her...   
  
It was a long kiss, slow and scorching like a torrent of lava. He envisioned it in such detail that it seemed almost real - but at the same time, he knew it was nothing but a dream, for there was no way that Scrib, this innocent child that blushed blood-crimson at the nonsense spouted by Mikael the bard, could be so passionate in the waking world.   
  
When he finally tore himself away from her, he looked around - and saw the rest of the Companions all assembled together at the feast tables, staring at him and Scrib, pointing fingers, laughing. She was a worthless milk-drinker, a weakling barely able to lift a sword. Her place was among the servants, fetching the mead; old man Kodlak might have considered her a fitting new recruit, but even the greatest among us sometimes make mistakes. Most of the Companions had not accepted her as one of their own - Vilkas, youngest but one of the most respected members of the Circle, was among them. By revealing that he had feelings for Scrib, Athis had made himself look like a complete and utter fool. His good name was smeared forever. His reputation among this famous band of warriors, the respect that he, a lone grey-skin refugee in an unfamiliar, unwelcoming land, had worked to hard to earn - it was all gone. Petrified, helpless, feeling his heart sink, he glanced around him, as the feast fires suddenly turned into tall pillars of wild, uncontrollable flame, reaching towards the ceiling, and the meadhall walls grew charred and brittle, and crumbled away into hot, weightless flakes of ash...  
  
Athis woke up, his lips salty with his own sweat. He was still sitting slouched on the same rock; he must have dozed off for quite some time, for his legs tingled unpleasantly when he tried to move. Sleep had not brought him relief; his head was as heavy as before. A cautious attempt to look around - he did not want to stir the fire in his temples any further - revealed Scrib, squatting down in front of him, gazing intently into his face; in her hands, there was a small phial of dark-green liquid. She smiled when she saw that he was awake; her expression as she did so was slightly apprehensive, as if she was expecting him to yell at her. With a bitter pang, he realized that her faltering smile, the butterfly in the corner of her mouth, was exactly the same as what he had seen in his dream.  
  
'Sera...' she said softly, placing the phial into his limp hands and arching her eyebrows pleadingly. 'Please drink this'.  
  
He obeyed. The liquid tasted terrible, making him want to stick his tongue out and scrape off every trace of it. But once he forced it down his throat, he felt the world come back into focus. The headache was subdued, and, at long last, he regained complete control over his limbs. His vision clearing, his mind springing alive, he suddenly realized that Scrib was not wearing her armour; instead, she was wrapped into some ridiculous broad-sleeved shirt that was too big for her - and too light, for her teeth were definitely chattering... The child absolutely none of the proverbial Nordic cold resistance.  
  
'What happened to your gear?' Athis asked sternly as they both stood up.  
  
She looked away, biting into her lips, and muttered something barely audible.  
  
'What was that? Speak up, girl!'   
  
The dream had come as a very clear, very obvious warning. His stubborn pride and his obsession with fitting in, with finding a place in Nord society, would most likely never let the spark within him grow into a full flame. Now that the effects of the 'special brew' had finally released their hold of him, he would never tell Scrib how grateful he was to her for putting up with him, how much her selfless support meant to him... They were back to normal. A bad-tempered Dunmer warrior and his milk-drinker apprentice.  
  
Scrib sniffed.  
  
'I... I... I sold my armour... and my sword... Ri'saad was kind enough to lend me the old shirt some Redguard had pawned to him...'  
  
Her voice trailed off into silence. Athis grabbed her by the shoulder, making her look at him. Her eyes were swimming with tears, just as he had expected. There were so many things that made her cry; a single harsh word made whole torrents break loose. More often than not, those harsh words came from him. And no matter how many times he told himself that it served her right for trying his patience, the wounding guilt at hurting her did not go away.  
  
'For gods' sake, stop blubbering! What do you mean, you sold your armour and sword?! And who is this Ri'saad?'  
  
It took her a while to reply; for one thing, she had to steady her breath and fight back her sobs - for another, he had often noticed that hearing him speak put her in a kind of blank stupor, evidently very hard to come out of.  
  
Finally, Scrib managed to squeeze the words out of herself,  
  
'Ri'saad is a trader from a... Khajiit caravan... He and his kin were passing by, and spotted us... He saw that you were... unwell... And he had a cure for sale... But...' she began to whimper once again, louder and louder by the second, 'I'm awful at haggling, and he kept raising the price, and I could not let you... I... You were... I... had to buy that potion! So I offered him all I had of value in exchange... I'm sorry!'  
  
Nerevar's blood, that girl was unbelievable!..  
  
  
  
Athis drew himself up to his full height. Scrib being rather short for a Nord, he towered over her, and his face, somewhere high above, was a leaden thundercloud.  
  
'You traded your sword and armour,' he said through gritted teeth, his tone deliberately slow, his eyes flaring, 'The two things that a warrior should hold sacred... For a hangover cure?!'  
  
Scrib closed and shut her mouth noiselessly, like a fish out of water. As always, she felt terrified of her mentor - and at the same time, mesmerized by him, her widened eyes feasting guiltily on his angular features, her mind benumbed by the sound of his voice...   
  
'Get them back,' Athis hissed, leaning down towards her.   
  
She swallowed. Silly, silly heart - why did it have to flutter so? He was just trying to get his point across, to intimidate her... She was forgetting her place again; she had no right to hope... But... His expression as he drew closer to her... as his breath scorched her trembling lips... It was so much like the look on his face when, mellowed by the robed stranger's mystery drink, he told her... he told her he was attracted to her... Of course, he did not remember it in the morning, and she never brought it up. She wouldn't have dared. Besides, people say all kinds of crazy things when they are drunk. But... But... His expression!  
  
Athis took a broad step back, looking startled, alarmed almost, and hurried to repeat,  
  
'Get them back! The Khajiit couldn't have gone far; find them, talk to them, make them return your sword and armour!'  
  
'But... I can't...' Scrib mumbled helplessly. On the best of days, it took her colossal effort to approach people she barely knew and start a conversation - she had to convince her legs they were made of flesh, not cotton wool, and to tear her parched lips apart. And of all the terrifying strangers she ever crossed paths with, merchants were definitely the worst. Worse than guards, even. They gave off this air of overwhelming superiority that made her dig herself in a snow drift and never come out again.  
  
'Get over yourself, girl,' Athis snapped. And, after a small consideration, added, 'Don't even think of coming back empty-handed'.  
  
  
As it turned out, the Khajiit had not gone far after all. All Scrib had to do was climb to the top of a rocky, heathery hillock, glancing back to where she had left Athis every now and again -  and look down, her heart suddenly crushed by the grip of invisible icy claws.  
  
The small round clearing that opened at her feet was a real battlefield. The caravaneers' brightly bannered cart lay overturned, one side sinking slowly in a nearby muddy pool; one of the wheels was still turning, slowly, hypnotically, round and round and round... Odds and ends of all shapes and sizes were scattered among tufts of dry, gold-tinted glass; Scrib could make out a white sleeping gown sprawled on the ground like a wounded bird, and a string of beads twisted round a shrub, in a kind of a tiny, sad initiation of a New Life's tree. The bulk of the merchandise, however, has piled in an enormous, misshapen heap a little further off, and bending over it, sorting through it, cursing and punching each other over it, there was a small group of armoured men, each more broad-shouldered, hairy-armed and mean-faced than the next. All of them were armed to the teeth, and the only thing that they were lacking - as, quite in spite of herself, Scrib suddenly caught herself thinking, somewhere in the back of her head, behind the tall, solid wall of fear - was a 'Yo! I'm a bandit!' tattoo branded across the forehead.  
  
This was a painfully difficult decision to make. Some of the bandits were holding the Khajiiti caravaneers by the arms, groping them for valuables; the poor dears were barely conscious, and Scrib could almost swear that the dark spots on their clothing were blood. If she dared to come down there, unarmed, wearing nothing but a ragged shirt, shivering all over, she would surely meet the same fate as Risaad and his kin. But if she turned back, if she left them be - who knows what those horrid cutthroats would do to the defenseless little kitties once they got what they wanted from them? And then, there was Athis... He had told her not to come back without her sword and armour... He already detested her, and if, once again, she showed him what a pathetic, spineless coward she was... He'd refuse to have anything more to do with her for sure.  
  
Scrib narrowed her eyes, making hot, thick tears spill over her eyelashes and down to her cheeks. 'I'll do it, sera,' she whispered feverishly, clenching her fists and making the first step downhill, 'I'll fight the bandits, and I'll save the Khajiit, and I'll get back my gear'.  
  
She came down just as the thugs' apparent leader, a burly Nord with a red, pock-marked face and a small dirty-blonde mohawk, was giving a violent shake to one of the Khajjit, who had a sack pulled over his head.  
  
'Yer a wizard,' he growled every time the hapless merchant started meowing faintly, writhing in his grasp, 'I saw ye shoot dem fireballs at me men. Ye hafta have a magic stash some place, stash of dem poshens and blue thingies and staves, what we can fence! Well, where is it?'  
  
But no matter how deep he dug his fingers into the Khajiit's shoulder, no matter how close he pressed the broad blade of his knife against his furry throat, the only reply he got was a hiss, accompanied by angry thrashing of a bushy tail against the ground. Finally, appearing to have run out of what little patience he had, he pushed the merchant in the chest, making him fall into the welcoming embrace of another bandit, a squat, bearded, leering Dunmer, whose entire body was covered in a thick, gnarled, pale-pinkish layer of scars.  
  
'Me be done with dis old fleebag,' the chief said, through a loud yawn, 'Kill 'im. Kill the lot o'em'.  
  
Scrib had been looking on at the scene crouching behind a mossy boulder, not daring to reveal her presence by as much as a breath. As the bandit chief questioned the wizard, she felt a strange, unfamiliar force building up within her, like ever-rising flood water, almost too powerful for her frail body. She straightened up slowly to give the force more space; the movement was instinctive, dream-like; she had absolutely no clue about what was going on, terrified of the new presence inside her body. In the meanwhile, the force swirled and raged within her, stronger than her fear, stronger than anything she had ever felt before - except, perhaps, that staggering pang within her heart when her eyes first met Athis'... When the Dunmeri bandit caught the Khajiit and unsheathed a gleaming curved dagger, preparing to strike, the great flood finally broke through. Scrib stepped out of her hiding place and breathed out a word the meaning of which she did not know,  
  
'FUS!'  
  
The Dunmer swayed, pushed in the stomach by an unseen wave that had rushed through the air from Scrib towards him. The other bandits staggered as well; this gave their Khajiiti captives a chance to wriggle free; while the thugs were blinking and rubbing their foreheads and attempting to regain their footing, they darted off up the hillock that Scrib had climbed down.  
  
Scrib herself gaped ahead of her blankly. Was this a spell she had just cast? But she was no sorcerer; she only knew a little healing magic... Or maybe it was one those things they spoke of in legends? A - a Shout? But that would mean... No! The Greybeards, or whoever it was that called out to the 'Dovahkiin' and made the whole of Whiterun quake that day when the dragon attacked - they had made a mistake! She was not a Dragonborn!  
  
All these thoughts raced through her mind, bumping into each other, twisting, whirling round, as if caught into a hurricane wind. She was still trying to sort through the mess in her head when the bandits came to their senses. Most of the gang ran uphill to chase down the Khajiit - and the chief shifted slowly towards Scrib, peering at her suspiciously. It took him a while - he was evidently not of the brightest sort - but eventually he figured out that the mysterious young woman that had unleashed the fury of unknown magic on him and his men, was now reduced to a wild-eyed, uncomprehending, frightened little dunce. And as soon as he did, he grew bolder. He waddled up to her and, measuring her skinny little self up with evident contempt, slowly drew back his arm and, with an ear-splitting swoosh, gave her a resounding punch in the jaw.  
  
With a small, piteous squeak, Scrib sank to her knees, choking. The bandit chief grunted in satisfaction and jerked her head up by the hair, making her look up at him, salty rivulets of blood and tears streaming down her face.  
  
'Think ye can mess with me gang, huh?' the chief asked, landing a second punch below Scrib's eye. 'Well, ye know what, ye lil' broad, no one messes with me gang!'  
  
Supplementing his statement with yet another punch, he surveyed the fruit of his labours with a satisfied smirk.  
  
'You...' Scrib wheezed, breathing heavily, her silvery grey, tear-filled eyes rounded in sincere disbelief. 'How can you be such a bad, bad person?'  
  
The bandit laughed, an unpleasant, snorting laugh that made an image of a very chubby, very content piglet float to the surface of Scrib's aching mind.  
  
'Ye ain't seen nothing yet!' he said, kicking at her with his boot. 'I'm gonna split yer sorry lil' belly like an ole woman's purse!.. Although...' he glanced down the loose-hanging shirt that Risaad had graciously lent to Scrib, and his lips parted in a predatory leer that made her nauseous. 'Lemme have some fun first...'  
  
Scrib closed her eyes, just as she had done when she was forced to lie down on the headsman's block in Helgen, and imagined she was somewhere far away, in a lush, green clearing beneath a smiling blue sky, surrounded by the beautiful creations of Kynareth, the goddess she revered the most. She forced this serene vision into her mind to fight back her fear of the pain that was bound to follow; but, weak and unworthy as her spirit was, this brought little comfort...  
  
The bandit chief moved around her, her hair twisted round his forearm, and aimed a kick at the small of her back. The realization of what was coming next was too much for Scrib's mind; overwhelmed, shattered, it sank into darkness. She did not see the chief's eyes grow glassy and vague; she did not see a thick, caterpillar-like clot of blood dangle out of the corner of his mouth; she did not see his body bend in two, suddenly limp as a ragdoll; she did not see his hands grasp weakly at the tip of the blade protruding out of his chest. She did not feel two sinewy, grey-skinned arms sweep her up and hold her close to a heaving, sweaty, blood-splattered chest. She did not know that the thin ashen lips that had so often haunted her dreams were now pressed against her forehead; that the long copper hair she had loosened this morning, stroking it furtively, with a shy smile, was now interweaving with hers...  
  
  
The sight of a small group of terrified Khajiit racing towards him, axe-wielding riffraff close at their heels, was more than enough. Athis bared his sword and charged at the bandits. As he blocked the way of each of them in turn, crossing weapons with them, circling round them, disorienting them, and landing the killing blow when they least expected it, his whole being was guided by a single frenzied thought. _Scrib._   
  
When the last of the outlaws dropped down at his feet, a broad crimson grin drawn across his throat, he did not even give the battlefield a backwards glance. Instead, he turned towards the silently approving Khajiiti onlookers, picked the one with a long grey mane and lifted him off the ground by the front of his finely tailored clothes.  
  
'Have you seen a young human woman, catface?' he asked impatiently, shaking the merchant not unlike the bandit chief had shaken his wizard companion (who had apparently been too ruffled up to aid Athis in battle). 'Nord, fair hair, grey eyes?'  
  
'Let... Ri'saad go...' the caravaneer croaked, clawing at Athis' hand, 'And... he... will... show you...'  
  
  
  
 _'I should have drawn it out more... I should have made him suffer... He deserved a slow death, for what he did to you...'_  
  
  
Scrib opened her eyes. It was the middle of the night, and the northern lights were blazing overhead like a stream of deep blue water crossing the velvety plane of the sky. The Khajiit had made camp right around the sight of the ambush; the cart now stood upright, and the sturdy, bushy-legged horses - that had run off when the bandits attacked and were now reunited with their furry masters - were grazing peacefully in the heather, outlined inky black against the bright fires. She took a deep breath. By Kyne, this was too good to be true. She was alive; she was cozy and warm, wrapped in a generous layer of animal pelts; and everything around was so peaceful...  
  
'Am I dreaming?' she asked, addressing no one in particular.  
  
In the darkness at her side, someone stirred, and a voice that made her heart sing replied,  
  
'Not any longer'.  
  
  
There was no need to tell her that she had been feverish with shock. That he had coerced Ri'saad into parting with some of his alchemical stock to treat the markings left by the bandit chief's heavy fist, and stop her from shivering and muttering something tearfully to herself. That in her delirium, she had recalled all manner of happenings from her childhood; that now he knew that her father had been abusive and her mother distant and uncaring, that it was they that had tainted her mind, convincing her that she was a good-for-nothing milk-drinker. That he had sat for hours holding her hand as she was thrashing about inside Risaad's tent. That once she had looked up at him and said, 'Athis, I can't breathe', and so he had carried her out into the open air, savouring the warmth he had felt when she called him by his name. That he had tried his best to repay her for what she had done for him. That he would lay down his life making sure that she would never come to harm again.  
  
There was no need to tell her. She had seen him through his sickness, and he had seen her through hers. Now, once again, and hopefully for good, she could go back to being mortally afraid of him, and he could go back to pretending that he did not care a thing about her. And his good name among the Companions would be safe.  
  
For a while, they watched the northern lights in silence, Athis making sure to keep sufficient distance between his hand and Scrib's bear pelt bedroll. Gradually, the air round them seemed to grow thick with tension; but before either of them could suffocate, Ri'saad emerged out of the blue darkness, brandishing a small statue of Dibella, which seemed to have been quite scarred during the skirmish with the bandits.  
  
'Khajiit appreciate the valiant rescue,' he purred, giving Scrib and Athis the look of a merchant on the warpath, 'And they are happy to give the lovely lady's blade and armour back - but they were wondering if the furless friends would be interested in their fine stock, hmm?'  
  
Athis squinted at the statuette the caravaneer was holding.  
  
'It has no arms,' he said bluntly.  
  
Ri'saad's ears twitched. Athis instantly regretted making his remark; the cat looked like he was thinking of an excuse to force them to buy his useless goods.  
  
And what a fine excuse it turned out to be!  
  
'Oh, but it is a souvenir,' Ri'saad said, after a short pause. 'To commemorate the recent events at the Markarth Temple of Dibella. It was ransacked, see. Barely a day ago, just as this one and his caravan were leaving the city of stone. Furniture, turned over. Precious relics, smashed. Statuary, defiled. All by some drunken Nord calling himself Torvar of the Companions...'


	2. Chapter 2

Athis shook his head in disbelief. He still had trouble processing the news that the wandering Khajiit caravaneers had told him and Scrib. Torvar - smashing furniture and yelling obscenities? In the Temple of Dibella in Markarth, of all places? How much had that air-brained Nord ended up drinking after Athis passed out? And more importantly, what was the deal with that Sam fellow, the one had that dragged the three Companions into this mess in the first place? The more Athis thought of him, of that slow, sly grin he had, of the warm flicker in his bloodshot eyes, regarding you shrewdly from beneath tangled brown hair - the more suspicious he seemed. What if Torvar, unknowingly, had put himself into danger by accepting that stupid, stupid bet? Athis could only hope that the poor fool would still be there when he and Scrib came to get him... so he could strangle him. Oh, yes, Torvar deserved strangling - for making Athis worried sick!

The Dunmer warrior and his apprentice had hitched a ride in a carriage bound for Markarth; and while her mentor was mulling over the best way to crush his best friend's jugular, Scrib was busy gazing at the hills that rolled past them in the pale rays of the fading moons. When Athis finally settled on smashing Torvar against the nearest wall, holding him by the throat and yelling at him a little ('What do you think you were doing, you blue-eyed n'wah?!'), he looked up... And mentally cursed himself for, yet again, succumbing to that wistful daze that always came over him when he set his eyes on Scrib. It never lasted longer than a few seconds, and as far as he could tell, was not even obvious to others, but he still felt terribly, painfully embarrassed.

She was nestled on her wooden seat with her feet tucked under her and her chin resting on her arms, her gaze chained to the soft long grass, swaying rhythmically on the side of the road. He could not see her face, save for the curve of her pale cheek, now tinted pink by the gentle rays of the wakening sun, and her ear, a small, funny, rounded human ear, peeking through wispy flaxen hair - but even that cheek and that ear made his heartbeat quicken.

Athis bit into his lips and breathed heavily through his nose. He had always been drawn to human women - maybe because of their exotic appearance - but with Scrib, things were getting ridiculous. He had nicknamed her after one of the wilderness critters from his home land for a good reason - she was just as annoying as the young wild kwama skittering along Ashland paths (and also, he found it difficult to pronounce her real name, Sveta, without his face splitting into a stupid grin... but no one could know about that).

Seriously. The girl was a walking disaster - clumsy, timid, always coming dangerously close to fainting with fear whenever he spoke to her. Definitely not someone deserving the affections of a true warrior like himself, of an aspiring Companion. She was not even a proper Shield Sister, not yet - even though old man Kodlak, for whatever obscure reason, had pointed this little serving girl out as a worthy Companion when she brought him his supper, she was still preparing for her Trial. And as her mentor, Athis honestly had no idea how she was going to pass it. She might have started to show shreds of promise while training in the safety of Jorvaskr's back yard - but she had not lasted long in a real fight. They belonged to two completely different worlds, he and Scrib. Thinking of her as anything else but the burden forced on him by Skjor ('You, Athis! Teach this whelp how to master one-handed weapons!') would be absurd... And yet...

 

'Scrib,' he called out to her hoarsely, before he could stop himself.

She started and turned away from the road, instantly stiffening. There it was again, that infuriating humility in her transparent grey eyes, that mute terror... Damn that little Nord for making him want to protect her, for making him go soft! That weakness of hers was contagious!

'Y-yes?' she stammered, shrinking her head into her shoulders - as if preparing for a blow.

Athis hesitated. The tender side that she had woken within him, the side that he dreaded so much to reveal, urged him to talk to her about what had happened when she sank into a shocked, feverish state after her very first real battle earlier that night. Gathering snatches of information from her delirium, Athis had slowly learned that when she was a child, her father had taken her to the stables and horse-whipped her, in a fit of drunken rage at seeing tears in her eyes - tears being a disgrace for a proper Nord. Deep down, he longed to talk to her about that incident, to say something reassuring, perhaps to let her rest her head on his chest so he could pet her hair and press her closer to him with his arm - letting her know that now she had nothing to fear, that now he was at her side, always ready to shield her from harm...

But instead, he knitted his eyebrows and said sharply,

'That fainting fit you had after your encounter with bandits - don't let it happen again. If you ever want to become a warrior, you must learn to control your weaknesses. Am I clear?'

'Yes, sera,' she mouthed. 'C-crystal c-clear'.

She did not say another word the rest of the way to Markarth - which Athis spent silently hating himself, and Scrib, and the entire world.

 

***

 

The city of Markarth seemed to be made entirely of stairways. Countless steep stairways, clinging to the jagged mountainside at breakneck angles, one stairway leading to another, merging with the third, rising higher and higher, as if attempting to link the massive grey cliffs with the heaven itself. And the Temple of Dibella was located at the very top of one of those stairways - as a local guard had helpfully pointed out (while they were talking to him, Sveta tried to hide behind Athis' back, because guards always found her to be the perfect target for their sweetroll jokes). It was a long, tedious climb, and by its end Sveta's mind was wiped completely blank; the only things that still existed inside her foggy head were the echo of her feet shuffling against the stone - and memories, which had come alive like a hornets' nest when Sveta started musing about the place she and Athis were headed for.

They were about to enter the Temple of Dibella. The Divine of beauty... The thought instantly brought forward an image of her own awkward teenage self, knees knocking together underneath an overly short night shirt - reflected in a full-length mirror back at home in Bruma. And another image - her mother's hand on her shoulder; long, delicate, pink-nailed fingers gripping her tightly, pushing her forward till her bare skin almost touched the mirror's piercingly cold surface.

'Look - just look how ugly you are! How hideous! That hair - so thin, so floppy; and completely lacklustre! And eyes - look how tiny they seem; all because of those eyelashes you've got! So short and colourless - they make you look like a blind mouse! And, pardon me - but these aren't breasts! You are fourteen - in a couple of years, you will reach the proper age for marriage - and yet you still have a boy's chest! Same goes for your narrow hips - disgraceful! And don't even get me started on that skin of yours! Don't turn away, girl - look closely. Look, and let the thought sink in. You are ugly'.

She had changed a little since then, of course: the gruesome red battlefield that was her skin slowly smoothed over when she entered her twenties, and she even somehow managed to get rounder in the right places. But her mother's message was still branded deeply into her heart, leaving gnarled scars inside it like the ones paving her back as a reminder of her father's lashing. She was ugly. And so, she did not belong in a temple dedicated to beauty.

'Se-sera,' she squeaked faintly, a little out of breath after braving the heights of Markarth, 'Would you mind if I - if I waited outside?'

Athis gave her a close, bewildered look over his shoulder. The girl was shifting from one foot to another, tearing at the skin round her thumbnails with other fingers. There were two fierce red spots on her cheeks, and her upper lip was moist with sweat. She was clearly terrified of entering the Temple; he could not fathom why. Perhaps it was the fabled statuary inside. Athis sighed in exasperation; she was such a child.

'Fine,' he groused, turning his back on her. 'I'll go in and check if Torvar is still around. If not, I will ask the priestesses when they last saw him. Wait for me somewhere near the local tavern, okay? Keep your nose clean while I'm gone. Don't get yourself abducted or killed'.

'Yes, sera,' she whispered, her voice barely audible over the clang of the metal door behind her mentor.

 

***

 

What was taking him so long? She had had time to stumble down the steps, gasping for breath every now and again when she caught a glimpse of the clouds swirling beneath her feet; to gawk at the gigantic waterwheel powering the forge; to yowl shrilly when the smith, an Orc woman with hunched shoulders and a perpetual scowl, emerged out of nowhere behind her back and snarled at her for knocking a basket with leather strips onto red-hot embers; to volunteer shakily to make up for the mess she had made by helping out around the forge; to sew together what must have been a dozen leather bracers, for which she got paid, to her utmost, flustered surprise; to part with the handful of coins the Orc had given her, deafened by the sound of an old beggar's voice in her ear - 'Alms! I said alms, you back-biter!'... And still, Athis was nowhere to be seen.

Sitting on a small stone bridge across a creek a little way off the market square, away from the horrible, stifling clutches of the crowd, Sveta kept a watchful eye on everyone that headed towards the inn. Every time she thought she caught a glimpse of the familiar grey-skinned, muscular back and sleek copper hair, she rose and clasped her hands together, her face lighting up with a fluttering smile. But each time, the vision of Athis turned out to be a false alarm, and she lowered herself on the sun-warmed stone again, the corners of her mouth sliding downwards and her grey eyes growing dim. What was he doing in there? Surely, he had had plenty of time to find out what had happened to Torvar?

She had half a mind to climb up again and poke her head inside the Temple - but the very thought of facing the priestesses of Dibella mortified her. They had to be beautiful, confident women - women with dozens admirers at their feet; women that could get anything they wanted from a man with a mere half-smile over the shoulder... Women that did... things in honour of their goddess. Maybe... Maybe they had done those things to Torvar, and were doing them to Athis - right now, while she was waiting for him? Sveta tried to imagine him lying down, bare-chested, his hair loose, his eyes half-closed, while some voluptuous Redguard or Breton priestess was playing with those dark-red tufts, right below his collar bones, that his scanty armour allowed her to see... The image made her whimper. Of course. Of course, he would choose a woman like that over her. She was nothing; a pathetic weakling, a blundering wannabe warrior who did not even have a pretty face as her excuse. Whichever god had made her fall so foolishly, insanely in love with him was playing a cruel, cruel joke.

She bit into her lips and forced herself to take her mind off Athis. It was no use thinking of him, dreaming of him, writing silly letters and clumsy poems addressed to him in her journal, among countless hasty sketches of his profile, his scowling lips, his piercing red eyes... Even after he had gradually started to treat her less like a nuisance and more like a person. This served no purpose other than humiliating herself. She had to do what he had told her. Control her weaknesses. And of all the weaknesses that were tearing her hapless little self apart, her obsession with Athis was the greatest one.

The water sang its cheerful, bubbly song beneath her dangling feet. It was soothing to listen to it, to gaze at the silvery ripples and the light playing with droplets of pure crystal. Sveta closed her fingers round the amulet of Kynareth that she always wore. Of all the Divines, the goddess of nature and the skies was the only one she trusted her heart to. Unlike living people, the creations of Kynareth, solemn, majestic, serenely silent, did not judge, did not mock, did not shun her. She who felt lost and frightened among other mortals, was completely at peace when listening to the playful chuckle of a creak, breathing in the heady scent of pine resin, gazing up into the wizened face of the winter sky...

'You there - what can you tell me about this house? Have you seen anyone enter or leave?'

Her reverie was broken by the sound of a loud, imperious male voice. The people in this city seemed bent on sneaking up on her when she least expected it.

Sveta scrambled to her feet and, turning around, saw that she had been snatched out of the world of daydreams by a tall, hard-faced man in a purplish mage's robe and a hood to match. He was staring unblinkingly at her, expecting a reply.

'H-house? What house?' she stammered, blinking uncomprehendingly.

'That one over there,' the man pointed at a seemingly abandoned building at the side of the creek. 'I am with the Vigil of Stendarr; our order tracks and puts down dangerous Daedra worshippers. I have reason to believe that there is at least one cult in town, and this house looks like a likely base. So I repeat: have you seen anyone enter or leave?'

'I... I only got here today,' Sveta mumbled, her soul slinking away somewhere into her knee caps at the sound of the Vigilant's authoritative voice.

'A visitor, eh?' he sized her up with narrowed eyes, taking in her guild-issued sword and armour - which did not go too well with her horrified face. 'Most of the travellers that pass through Markarth are sellswords, looking for work from the Silver-Bloods - you wouldn't happen to be a sellsword, would you? I need someone to watch my back in there'.

Sveta swallowed loudly. An abandoned house, most likely dark and filled with those spooky, blood-curdling noises that are really just the wind but sound nothing like it... A house that could have Daedra worshippers hiding out inside it, too... That was definitely not her cup of canis root tea (that was the expression she had learned from a childhood friend of hers, a Dunmer painter working on a portrait of her father's ancestor - a friend who left for Morrowind and took with him the little strength she had in her little heart). She would not last a minute inside without shrieking her head off; she was too afraid of the dark, and closed spaces, and pain, and demons, and... No. She could do this. She could control her weaknesses. She would go in there, and prove to herself, to that man with his firm jaw and a demanding manner of speaking, and most importantly, to Athis, that she was not afraid. How shocked her mentor would be, she thought with a sudden surge of malice (which was so unlike her that she shuddered), to discover that while he and Torvar were having fun with the priestesses, she had single-handedly (sorta) cleared out a den of Daedra worshippers!

'Yes,' she said, as firmly as she could. 'I am a sellsword'.

 

***

 

'Look: fresh food on the tables, and no signs of wood rot on the furniture. Someone has been here. Recently'.

The girl responded with a small, uneasy laugh. From beneath knitted eyebrows, Tyranus watched her feign an interest in his discoveries. Just what kind of a sellsword was she - afraid of a couple of empty rooms? Try as she might, she could not conceal it - not from him, with his years of interrogation experience. The little wretch was shaking in her battered, wrinkled hide boots; her pupils dilated in blank terror whenever the light of Tyranus' magical orb fell on a table or chair, and it cast a crawling, elongated shadow on the floor. He was beginning to have doubts if she could actually lift that sword of hers. But as they progressed further downstairs, he gradually began to pay less and less heed to his whimpering companion. The house was definitely inhabited; with every new step he made, he caught sight of more traces of human presence; this filled him with a burning excitement, an urge to keep exploring... Who was laughing now, eh? Those short-sighted fools at the Hall had refused to believe him, had called his mission in Markarth a fool's errand, a wild goose chase! Well, he was going to show them who was chasing wild geese here - he was going to show all of them! Especially the Keeper. Ah, Keeper Carcette... Tyranus smirked as he pictured her face, congratulating him on a successful mission - little did he know that at the exact same moment the timid Nord girl was also imagining her superior congratulating her... A Dunmer with red hair and white war paint, smiling just as Carcette smiled in Tyranus' vision. Only for the Vigilant, the dream-like image was a tonic that helped him stay alert, not missing a single detail of his surroundings, not as much as a tiny crack in the ancient stone. While for his Nord companion, it was a crutch that kept her from spiralling down into the gaping black abyss of fear that opened beneath her feet whenever she heard a rustle in the heart of the sleeping house.

After wandering through high-ceilinged stone corridors, among massive square Dwemer columns with carvings at their bases, the two explorers hit a dead end. Their way was barred by a locked metal door; the glint of its surface in the light of Tyranus' spell seemed almost like a wink. Teasing him. Daring him to try and break through. He shot a quick contemptuous glance at the Nord girl - she was obviously too frail to use force on the door - and leaned against the hard cold metal with his shoulder. And just as the ribbed lines on the door's surface pressed into his arm, there was a faint rumble somewhere beneath the floor. The spell orb went out, and the room plunged into darkness, pierced by a web of white, swirling mist that rose from the floor, crawling up his legs, worming its way into his heart - making it grow numb and so very, very cold...

And with the mist, came a voice. Slashing through his mind like a whip. Powerful, commanding - and strangely seductive.

'Weak,' it leered inside Tyranus' head, pronouncing every word as if taking a slow sip of wine. 'She is weak. You are strong. Crush her'.

The Vigilant glanced wildly around. The girl was circling on one spot, her face wiped of all colour and all expression - the various household items from the nearby chest of drawers had soared into the air and were now swarming round her like a flock of bizarre dark birds, one shaped like a clothes iron, another like a basket, another still like a wooden plate... Oh yes, she was weak. The voice was right on that account. Weak and pathetic, completely disoriented by her fear of the haunted house... But to kill her? To kill this horror-struck child, who had done nothing wrong, trying to help him as best she could?..

'Kill her,' the voice sung on, both ordering Tyranus to obey and pleading him, caressing him, ensnaring him... 'Crush her bones. Tear at her flesh'.

His eyes growing glassy and vacant, Tyranus suddenly envisioned a steaming crimson gash running across the Nord girl's neck, a tiny dark-red thread snaking out of the corner of her mouth, her tearful grey eyes rolling up, exposing their blank whites, her limp body thudding at his feet - and his boot kicking her fragile skull as if it was a ball in a game, till a dark puddle spread across the floor and her pale-gold hair became pink with blood...

'Get out of my head, Daedra!' he screamed in panic, grabbing at his throbbing head.

The next time the voice spoke, it was seething with rage.

'You will kill! You will kill, or you will die!'

Tyranus leaned forward, groaning, as his skull exploded with pain. When he straightened up, the pupils of his eyes drowned in a blood-red glow, and his fingers flexed round two balls of coiled lightning.

The flying clutter settled down, as though making way for him. He advanced at the girl, his head bent forward, and leered as he watched her back away, her knees wobbling, till she hit her back against the wall and closed her eyes, realizing that she had nowhere to turn. This was going to be easy. So easy... He would shoot a lightning bolt through her heart and ravage her lifeless body...

When his wheezing, hungry breath scorched her face, she tore her eyes open - and, suddenly, instinctively, reached out for the sword at her hip. She screamed in terror even as she whipped the blade out of its sheath and shielded herself clumsily with it - even as, too drunk with the smell of her blood to notice her movement in time, he leaned forward... aiming to kill her with his shocking touch, but instead, pinning himself on her sword. She kept screaming as the steel sank deeper and deeper into the Vigilant's flesh, and blood came spurting out of the wound, washing over her trembling hands...

The voice was wrong. He was wrong. The girl was not weak - far from it. It took great strength to face your fears...

As the pain devoured him and the world slowly spun away, Tyranus took one last look into the girl's eyes. Shimmering with tears, they seemed enormous - filling his entire beeing with their silvery glow.

'I am sorry,' she sobbed, letting go of the sword's hilt and grabbing at Tyranus' robe, as though trying to hold him back, to keep him from sinking into Oblivion. 'I am so, so sorry...'

 

***

 

The voice filled her mind, which had been emptied when she finally let go of Tyranus. It soothed her, called out to her, beckoned her to come further down. Deeper, deeper. Into the bowels.

Dazed, unthinking, obedient like a dream-walker, she stumbled through the metal door, which had swung open the moment the Vigilant drew his last breath, and down a twisting passageway, which gradually turned into a narrow cavern - till finally, she found herself facing a large, jet-black altar, shaped like the head of a monstrous horned creature, holding a bowl of what looked terrifyingly like blood up to its predatory mouth. Jerking awake, Sveta turned to run, away, away from this terrible place - but she had hardly made two steps when thick, spiky metal bars shot out of the floor all around her, forming a cage. And a voice, a terrible, cold, venom-filled voice, drawled out a mocking greeting,

'Ah, there you are. I have been watching you, mortal. So far, you have done little to please Molag Bal, the Lord of Domination. In fact, the likes of you were once sacrificed on this very altar. The weak were punished by the strong. But you may serve your purpose yet. Even a Daedra Lord has his enemies, and my rival Boethiah has had her priest desecrate my altar. I want you to find this priest and bring him to me'.

Sveta let out a faint, whimpering gasp. Molag Bal himself... one of the most terrifying Daedra Lords... talking to her? Giving her orders? This was wrong... so very, very wrong... She screwed up her eyes and gripped her amulet so tightly that it left an imprint in the skin of her palm. The Daedra would surely 'punish' her for this - but so be it. She had already killed a man because of Molag Bal, she was not about to do so again. Yes, she was weak - but if weakness meant sparing lives, maybe it wasn't such a horrible thing, after all.

'I am not helping you to exact revenge,' she said, quietly but firmly.

The voice laughed - a deep, throaty laugh that sent shivers down Sveta's spine.

'Revenge? No; I want submission. I want him to bend to me - to give his soul to me!'

Stealing a man's soul? That was even more evil that merely killing him. Sveta felt her jaw tighten.

'I am not helping you, Daedra,' she breathed, pressing her amulet against her lips and bracing herself for the worst.

'You are not, are you?' the voice echoed coldly. 'Then I have no further use for you'.

When the last word trailed off into silence, it was followed by another sound, which made Sveta lose feeling in her feet. A soft drip-drip-drip of blood raining down onto the floor. The altar was overflowing.

 

***

 

He did not believe he had to resort to this. Sneaking in the shadows like a gutter rat. If anyone at the meadhall found out, he would become a laughing stock! But the accursed priestess really left him no choice - no matter how hard he pressed on with questions about Torvar, she remained adamant. Some drunk had rushed in the other night, raving something about a goat and a wedding, groped the statuary (Athis could really see why - just one look at the images of Dibella made the tips of his ears flare up), then lost his temper and thrashed the place. And that was it. She refused to tell him where Torvar had gone - but made no attempts to deny knowing it. The damned human was hiding something - but what? Maybe a visit to the Inner Sanctum could clear a few things up... Athis rubbed his forehead, a plan slowly beginning to form inside his mind.

'I say...' he began, deliberately speaking as slowly and huskily as he could. This seemed to have a completely disarming effect on women. Why, Scrib had almost started bleeding out of her nose when he suggested taking a carriage to Markarth - his drawling 'Why walk when you can ride?' made her flap her arms about helplessly.

'I say...' Gods, he was not too good at this... What else could do? Let the strap of his armour slide back, completely exposing his chest? Flex his muscles? Yes, that could work...

'I hear the priestesses offer certain... services to weary travellers...'

All right, was the eyebrow waggle too much? No, she seemed to be buying it.

'That we do,' she said, smiling.

'Good, good,' he breathed, stretching out his hand and passing it along the outline of her robes. For some reason, he felt terribly guilty over what he was doing - overcome by an urge to apologize to Scrib, of all people.

The priestess caught him by the wrist; he felt his heart jolt. Had she - had she noticed that he had pickpocked her key?.. But it seemed that she was merely holding him back from... acting too soon.

'Not now,' she said softly. 'We need certain preparations. Candles. Ointments. Daedric boots. I have it all right here...'

With those words, and a wink that made Athis cringe, the priestess set to rummaging through countless little boxes laid out at the sides of the goddess' altar. Athis drew a deep breath. This was his chance. He backed away on tiptoe, eyes fixed on the priestess, till his fingers brushed against the door to the Inner Sanctum. His heart in his mouth, his fingers clammy and trembling, he whirled around and inserted the key into the lock. After one turn, it clicked; he gently pushed the door open and slipped through.

A few flights of stone steps led him down into a spacious hall, misty with candle smoke. On a stone bed in its centre, lay an old woman with a sunken, deeply lined face and a nose sharpened like a bird's beak. There were other women gathered round her, all in priestesses' robes, kneeling down and following every rise and fall of her hollow chest with intent, unblinking eyes. When Athis crossed the threshold, the old woman jerked upwards into a sitting position and raised her hands into the air, her wild grey hair flying like a cloak behind her back. Her eyes, large and covered with a milky-white film, peered into Athis' face, seeming to bore into his very soul. He stood petrified in one spot, his body seeming to be slowly melted away by that flaming blind stare - while the woman cawed shrilly,

'You! You will find the child, and the fool that was sent to fetch her! You, and the woman that you are pining away for! Ooh, yes, little one, your heart burns with desire - as does hers! You both yearn to belong to one another - but you have built a wall between yourselves because you are both ashamed of your passion! Look into your hearts, and ask yourselves - is there really cause for shame?'

Her voice rose to a high, shattering pitch - and then, was abruptly silenced, as she threw herself back onto her pillows and froze, her arms pressed stiffly against the sides of her body. The priestesses rose from their knees, and one of them declared solemnly,

'The Sybil is dead'.

 

***

 

'So, let me get this straight,' Athis said slowly, struggling not to think about the Sybil's final words and to focus on his rescue mission. 'For thrashing the Temple, you imposed a penance on Torvar - you told him to go to Karthwasten and to fetch the girl destined to become the new Sybil, because your old Sybil was dying?'

'That is right,' the oldest-looking priestess, whom everyone addressed as Mother Hamal, gave a curt nod. 'I instructed Senna back in the main hall not to tell anyone what had happened - because we prefer to announce a new Sybil after she has been brought here. The people need to know that we have a connection to the goddess... But it appears that truth will out, one way or another. Maybe you could do us a service and see why your friend has not come back yet?'

'That was my intention,' Athis said, somewhat stiffly - it had seemed to him that when Mother Hamal was talking about how 'truth will out', she had given him a very meaningful look. 'But first, I have to... never mind'.

He had been meaning to say that he had to find Sveta - but yet again, the looks on the priestesses' faces seemed far too meaningful for his liking.

 

***

 

'Push harder, you n'wah!'

'I am pushing!' Yngvar the Singer barked, straining his muscles till he could taste blood in his mouth. 'And stop showering me with those grey-skin curses!'

Athis said nothing and pressed his shoulder against the unyielding metal door. His heart, which had started aching the moment he came down to the market square and realized that Scrib was not there, was now being torn apart by burning agony. That burly Nord had told him that he saw her enter this house, which was empty and presumed haunted - and now the damn door was jammed! Who knew what was happening to Scrib, trapped in there, no doubt frightened out of her mind... If she came to harm, he would never forgive himself. This was the second time in barely two days when she got herself into a fix while Athis was not watching her. How could he have been so careless?! He, who lo... who was responsible for her - as... as her mentor.

At long last, the door gave way. Pushing Yngvar aside, Athis plunged head-first into the darkness, screaming Scrib's name. And praying to the Reclamations, the Divines, the Tribunal of old, and every other possible god, saint and Daedra - with a passionate force that brought tears to his eyes - praying to see her flustered little self without a single scratch, a single speck of blood on her armour.

Blinded by desperation, he charged through room after empty room, tripping over furniture and not minding the odds and ends that were flying around in all directions. He stopped only when he descended into the very bowels of the ancient building - and swayed, clutching his heart.

The little room, at the end of the sloping, cavernous tunnel he had entered, was filling with blood - that cascaded down from a black altar that he recognized as a shrine to Molag Bal. And Scrib, his poor, blundering Scrib, was standing in the centre of the room, grasping at the bars of a spiked cage; the thick red liquid was lapping against her chest - her throat - her chin...

With an incoherent cry, Athis jumped into the sea of red and, overcoming nausea, waded towards Scrib. She looked up into his face, silent tears streaming down her face. He was taller than her, despite her being a Nord, and the blood waves were barely starting to lick his chin hairs - but Scrib was straining her neck to keep the ruby bubbles from clogging her nose.

'You are slender enough to push through the bars,' he said hoarsely. 'Come on. Dive. I will be there to catch you'.

'I can't...' she spluttered, her head bobbing up and down in the sea of blood. 'The... the spikes...'

Oh, confound it. The wretch was afraid of pain.

'What did I tell you about controlling your weaknesses?!' he roared, standing on tiptoe as the first salty droplets started getting into his mouth. 'Do it! It's an order! Don't you dare disobey me and die!'

She nodded weakly, drew an enormous breath of air - and disappeared beneath the bloody waves.

Athis waddled closer to the cage, as best he could. He could feel Scrib struggling to eel through the bars, ready to catch hold of her any moment - and then, something large and soft pushed against his body. He dove in - and emerged, panting, pressing an unconscious Scrib against his chest. Just at that moment, the blood level stopped increasing. Maybe Lord Bal had run out of his supply - or maybe he was rethinking the concept of strength and weakness.

 

***

 

'For the second time in two days, I have to drag you out of the mess you've made! For the second time in two days, I have to play nursemaid to you while you are healing your wounds! You are the most incompetent, irresponsible, brainless apprentice I have ever had!'

Athis paused his enraged tirade to catch his breath. He and Scrib were sitting, wrapped in blankets, in the Temple of Dibella. He had marched all the way up, dripping with blood, holding Scrib in his arms - quite a spectacle he must have made... but he couldn't care less. The priestesses had bathed them - separately, as Athis vehemently insisted - and healed the deep marks left by the cage's spikes as Scrib pushed past them. Now they were taking a brief rest before heading for Karthwasten and finishing Torvar's work for him.

Scrib's lower lip quivered - and then, suddenly, she responded to Athis' scolding with a monologue of her own, loud and tearful and just as passionate as her mentor's,

'Do you think I enjoy being who I am?! Do you think it makes me happy, being weak and cowardly and incapable of doing anything on my own?! Do you think it was my choice, being mocked and pushed around at every turn?! Having my own parents despise and shun me?! I - I...' something snapped in her voice, like a lute string tearing in two, 'I hate myself much more than you hate me!'

For a few moments, they sat in stunned silence. The flare of anger in Scrib's eyes had been extinguished  
by the end of her outburst, and she had shrunk her head into her shoulders, expecting Athis to strike her for being so insolent.

But instead, he did something entirely different - something that shocked both him and Scrib. Something that they would be too afraid, too embarrassed to mention in the days to come. He took her hand in his, and pressed it against his lips, and whispered,

'I don't hate you, Scrib... And I wish you wouldn't hate yourself. I wish... Ah, forget it. Let's get a move on. We are wasting daylight'.


	3. Chapter 3

Why hadn't the world changed? Why was the road beneath her feet still paved with the same rough, misshapen stones? Why were the cliffs along its sides still grey and overgrown with wiry, prickly juniper bushes? Why were there ancient Dwemer pillars dotting the wilds, like they had done in the days of her forefathers, and why was the sky above as overcast as it usually was on a typical late afternoon in Skyrim? Surely, the shock she had been through was strong enough to change the familiar landscape forever? But no; as always, the great creations of Kynareth, and the last heritage of the long-gone Dwarves, remained unmoved. Serene and indifferent, while her own little self was engulfed in flames.

She had heard the voice of a Daedra Lord; she had almost drowned in a torrent of fresh, steaming blood; to save herself, she had had to squeeze through the bars of a metal cage - bars that had spikes, spikes that sank into her flesh as she pushed past them. Spikes that penetrated deeper and deeper with every move she made - shooting unbearable, scorching pain through her body, and adding own blood to the dark, unstoppable flow... Horrible, horrible memories, each of them sure to attract Vaermina for many nights to come. But her mind had almost shattered to pieces, and her heart had almost stopped beating, for quite a different reason.

He had kissed her hand. His lips... Those thin, ever-pursed lips she kept imagining whenever she managed to catch a few quiet minutes in between chores and training, curled up in her dark corner with some love story... The lips she sketched on the margins of her journal, over and over again... They had touched her skin. They had actually touched her skin. And like his kiss had caressed her hand, his low, raspy voice had caressed her hearing, making her heart flutter frantically. He had said... Oh, by the gods, he had said that he didn't hate her - this was the closest thing to a display of affection she could ever have hoped to get out of him. Sure, it had taken her an encounter with Molag Bal, and a little hysterical outburst, to hear those precious, precious words... But, but - oh sweet Divines, it was completely worth it!

Now, he was clearly embarrassed by that kiss, and that sudden phrase he had stunned her with - she could see it in his clouded face as he marched at her side, grim and silent, down the road from Markarth to Karthwasten. She understood, and she did not dare wish for anything more than what he had already given her - in fact, now she had to work really hard, to overcome her fears, to strain herself to the utmost during her training, to show him how grateful she was. Grateful for the joyful song that her heart had sung when his lips pressed against her hand. The song that she would be hearing for as long as she lived.

She sounded so unbearably mushy, even to herself; he would probably laugh in her face if he knew her thoughts. There could hardly be anything more ridiculous than a milk-drinker like her sucked into the whirlwind of first love.

 

***

 

'Scrib? Snap out of it and ready your sword! Wolves!'

Athis had stopped in his tracks, preparing to face the four dark shadows that were racing towards the road down a steep rocky slope. He wouldn't be surprised if the beasts were attracted by the smell of dried-up blood on his and Scrib's armour. The priestesses, eager to send the two on their way to find the new Sybil, had used all the water and soap and magic at their disposal - but no matter how hard they scrubbed and splashed and dried, they could not get all the traces of that nightmarish plunge out of the hide and cloth, and both armour sets remained shaded dark-red.

 

Scrib started and almost tripped over her own feet at the harsh, barking sound of her mentor's voice. As usual. With that frightened look on her face that made him feel so guilty... But if he hadn't yelled at her, she would have kept walking forward, glassy-eyed and grinning stupidly, till the pack tore her to shreds. The foolish child was daydreaming again - and watching her had almost infected him, too.

'Come on!' he cried out angrily as he whipped out his own sword, dashing forward to bar the wolves' way. 'Focus on the target! Precise moves - and no blubbering!'

She obeyed. He knew that she was afraid - afraid of the drooling maws, of the strong mangy paws clawing at the ground, of the flashing, feral eyes, drawing nearer, ever nearer... But still, she obeyed. She unsheathed her weapon and stood with her legs wide apart, waiting for the pack to approach close enough for a strike. Athis watched her out of the corner of his eye, as two of the wolves raced up to him, snarling, and the other two swept over towards her. She was trembling all over - but when the beasts closed in on her, their snapping jaws inches away from her arms, she found it in her to lift her sword and, with a short cry, thrust it forward, sinking it almost hilt-deep into the heaving mass of dark-grey fur... and then, to tear it out and turn to the other wolf, just as it was preparing for a pounce.

Watching her struggle to tug her sword out, watching her sway and stumble over the two dead beasts, filled Athis' chest with a warm, comforting feeling, as if an orb of magic light was slowly swelling within him. Little Scrib, killing wolves in the wilderness... Handling herself in real combat... Making her mentor proud... Yes, that was it. He - he was proud of her.

While he was gazing at Scrib's awkward, fumbling movements, he had lost a crucial chance to land a blow, and the two wolves that were circling round him seized the moment and overpowered him, leaping at him and pinning him to the ground. Grinding his teeth in pain as the curved fangs and claws ripped at his bare arm, he kicked the wolves in the belly with his boots and used the flat of his blade to try and push the dripping jaws away from his face. His blood pounding in his ears, his eyelashes sticking together with sweat, he strained his muscles till it began to seem to him that, any second now, they would tear apart - and just as he lost feeling in his arm, and the wolves' hot, wet breath swept over him in a stifling wave, there came a sound, somewhere from behind; a faltering, tremulous voice trying to cry out a word in an unfamiliar tongue,

'F...F... FUS!'

It was as though the air around him had turned to water - and that water rose and heaved in an immense tidal wave, rushing over him and washing the two wolves away. They lay curled up on the ground for a while, where the wave had tossed them, and then got up and trotted off, their tails between their legs, yelping fearfully. Athis strained his neck to watch them flee - but then sank down again, finally letting go of his sword and tearing into his lips as the bite marks pulsed and burned with pain. He lay quite still, watching the leaden clouds swirl over his head - until his view of the sky was obscured by a familiar pallid face, twisted by terror and concern.

'Was... Was that a spell?' he asked hoarsely. 'What you just did?'

'I... I don't know,' Scrib mumbled in reply, bending closer to inspect his wounds. He let his mouth twitch in a swift, barely noticeable smile; the girl's face had turned a sickly, greenish grey when she saw the blood, but she did not flinch or turn away. She just frowned a little - and went on talking, apparently to distract herself from the gory sight while preparing a healing spell,

'It... It just happens to me sometimes. Like... like with those bandits that attacked the K-Khajiit caravan... You weren't there,' she gulped and hurried to add, 'S-sera... But I did the same thing. Maybe it is a spell - but not any spell I learned from Master Farengar at the Jarl's Keep... He only gave me Restoration tomes, when I was doing re...research for him... It could have to do with the writing on the s-st-trange wall in B-Bleak Falls B-Barrow...'

'Wait'.

He hated cutting her short like this. He had had no idea that she had been doing research for the court wizard, or had visited the infamous haunted barrow near Riverwood. This had to be the first time she talked to him about herself. And he... well, why not face the facts? He longed to learn more about her. Where she had come from. Where she had spent her childhood. What she had been doing before joining the Companions.

She had started out in the meadhall as a serving wench, fetching the mead and helping old Tilma keep the place clean. But her movements had always been slow and clumsy, not at all like those of an experienced maid. And when she had first begun her training, her palms soon grew raw and blistered from holding the weapon hilt. He had watched her wrap bandages round her hands on many an evening. Her fingers, long and delicate - save for the red, bloated skin round the nails, which she kept biting and tearing at - were not a peasant girl's fingers. She obviously came from well-to-do stock; this had been confirmed by her delirium, when she called out to her father, reliving the memory of being horse-whipped in the stables; he figured that those stables had to belong to her family. Perhaps her father's cruelty was the reason why she had left home, why she preferred making the beds for Jorvaskr warriors to living in the comfort of a wealthy Nord household? But that was all idle guesswork; there was really nothing, nothing about her that he knew for certain. And by the Three, he would have revelled in a chance to get her to tell him - well, to tell him whatever she was willing to tell... If it were not for those accursed interruptions.

'Scrib - did you hear that?'

She relaxed her fingers, which had been cupped round a coil of soft, honey-coloured rays of light, and listened intently. And then the sound that Athis had heard - or thought he had heard - rang through the air once again, this time louder. A shrill, echoing call, resembling the roar of a beast and yet coming from the sky high above... Quite unlike anything he had ever heard before - though, no, wait. He had heard it once, on that day when the city was all in turmoil, when the Jarl's Housecarl had called all the guards to her and they marched through the streets, carrying swords and bows, telling everyone to remain indoors... The day when the western watchtower got burned by a dragon. Just before Scrib first arrived in Jorvaskr.

'Oh d-dear,' Scrib stammered, throwing her head back and gaping blankly at the clouds. 'Oh d-dear... That must be why the wolves ran away...'

With a faint groan and a not so faint curse, Athis groped for his blade and pushed himself up first into a sitting pose, then to his knees, and finally to his feet. The mangled bite marks on his arms and stomach were still oozing blood - but he would have to think about them later. A dragon was a much greater adversary than a couple of flea-ridden wolves. Tightening his grip on his sword hilt, he squinted in the direction of Scrib's wide-eyed stare - and whistled,

'That's... That's one big lizard'.

It was coming down straight at them - an enormous winged creature; with a thick scaly hide; long, glistening dark claws on its feet, which were pushed forward like a hawk's when it is preparing to grab at its prey; and a pair of webbed wings. Athis felt his heart soar with excitement. He - he would be the first Companion of this age to battle a real dragon! Well, he and Scrib, that is... Not that he would let her do any actual battling, of course.

'Get behind my back!' he called out to Scrib, reaching out towards her with his free arm.

She shook her head. Her reply was barely audible through the swoosh of the wind in the dragon's wings.

'You should get behind my back, sera. You are wounded'.

'Guar-dung!' he spat. 'Just a few scratches! Come on, do as I tell you!'

At that moment, the dragon froze in mid-air, the tip of its spiky tail almost scraping the ground, and opened its mouth, showing a row of jutting, uneven, dagger-like teeth. With a stifled yelp, Scrib grabbed Athis by the hand and pulled him away - just before the ground under their feet erupted into a flaming tempest. She had obviously done it on the spur of the moment, to save both of them from being fried by dragon breath, and he had other things to do about instead of melting away at her touch - like, oh, well, not dying and preferably killing that lizard... But he could not help closing his fingers tighter round hers. He could not help allowing his eyelids to slide down, for a moment, and enjoy that tiny bit of warmth trapped in his hand. He could not help thinking, somewhere at the back of his head, about how terrified the silly little thing would surely be if he lifted her hand to his lips again...

Enraged that its first flame blast had missed its target, the dragon landed, making the ground quake beneath it and raising a cloud of dust as its claws dug deep gullies in the charred soil. This was the time to act.

Letting go of Scrib, Athis charged at the dragon, brandishing his sword. He managed to get close to the beast and slice a little at its horny snout. The dragon's nostrils flared as it got a taste of the thick dark streams running down to its mouth; it roared angrily and snapped at the insolent little grey creature that had dared to draw its blood. At first, Athis eluded the dragon's hungry jaws with more success than he had the wolves' - but as he danced around in front of the snarling snout, stinging it with his blade now and again like a wasp, the pain in the bite marks grew almost too much to bear; disoriented, he lost his balance and fell. The dragon loomed over him, huffing loudly - and caught his leg in between it teeth. Swinging through the air, deafened by the ringing in his ears, and blinded by the burning feeling of his flesh being shredded off the bone, he thought he heard frightened sobbing...

 

***

 

She honestly did not know what she was thinking. Trying to impress Athis with her bravery? Really? As if milk drinkers could ever be brave... But now it was too late to turn back. She had grabbed hold of the dragon's thrashing tail and started climbing up its spiky back; the great beast had been too busy attempting to bite at Athis to pay any heed to her - and now she was so high up she was afraid to jump down. So she had to keep going. Grabbing at the spikes and scales with one hand while gripping at her sword with another. Freezing and screwing up her eyes whenever the beast made a sudden move. Breathing loudly through her nose, her mouth shut tight to keep her heart from leaping out.

She was already hugging the dragon's neck when she heard its jaws snap. Trying her utmost not to fall off, dark circles of sweat spreading round her armpits, she cocked her head to one side to make out what the beast's head was up to while she was making her progress towards it - and broke into uncontrollable sobs. Athis, her dearly, insanely beloved Athis, was dangling limply out of the dragon's mouth, like a dog's toy torn by a playful puppy. She - she could not let him die like that. She had to do something, anything, to save him!

Hearing a bothersome noise and apparently finally realizing that there was some sort of object stuck to its neck, the dragon swivelled its head to check what it could possibly be. For a few seconds, which seemed to last an eternity, the puny little mortal, clinging on to the mighty beast's scales, stared into its burning yellow eyes - and then closed her own, tears rolling off her eyelashes and down her cheeks, and threw herself forward, right onto the dragon's snout.

Her wild flight through the air did not last for one tenth of a second - but it was more than enough for her to die and come to life again. Her dazed mind did not even register at first that her sword had pierced the scaly skin in between the dragon's eyes; that, with a bellow of agony, it had let go of Athis; that her own self had somehow rolled back down to the ground; that the beast was now writhing over her head, flapping its wings, which were being slowly eaten away by a golden flame...

 

***

 

She had to be a goddess. A manifestation of a Daedra, or some such sort of otherworldly being. Unearthly beautiful - and just as terrifying. Athis gazed at her in dumbfounded awe as she leaned over him, her hair flowing in the wind, her whole body woven out of rays of light, her eyes burning just like those of the dragon that he had just fought - that had just killed him, perhaps? For there was no way that such a creature could belong to the mortal world...

But as he peered through the dazzling glow, waves of scorching heat rushing down his spine, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth - he realized that the ethereal woman looked a lot like Scrib. She had the same face, the same pale-gold hair, the same gentle smile... In fact, the longer he gazed at her and the greedier he drank in her beauty, the surer he became that she was, in fact, Scrib - transformed by the aura of light that swirled around her. Those twisting, rustling, whispering rays made her shine in a way a gem shines when light falls onto it. And seeing her in her full glory went to his head faster than any wine. Breathless, elated, wildly happy, he tried to say the words that had been planted within his heart when he first saw Scrib; that had grown and gained strength during her apprenticeship; that had reached the peak of that growth while he was holding her to him, wading through a river of blood away from the shrine of Molag Bal - and that were now blossoming in full at the touch of the light.

'I love you!' he screamed noiselessly. 'Scrib - Sveta... My Sveta... I love you!'

But no sound came. The soft light faded away, and Scrib turned back to her usual, familiar, ever-frightened, painfully shy self. And Athis gasped, drowning in a renewed surge of pain.

 

***

 

'Sera... Can you hear me? Please, please, stay with me, sera - I will heal you, I promise...'

Athis blinked a few times, his head swimming, his body aching dully. He lay on the ground, and towering at his side, was the giant carcass of the dragon, completely stripped of all flesh and scales. Scrib was crouching next to him, hovering one outstretched hand over his bloodied leg and another over his upper body; her fingers were glowing with a Restoration spell - but that glow was nothing like what he had seen just now... Perhaps it had been a mere fever dream - an illusion, fueled by shock and pain... and the good hard shake his skull must have taken when he landed on the ground out of the dragon's jaws. Good thing that he had been unable to say those insane words out loud... Or was it?

'You are gonna be okay,' Scrib mouthed, her pupils drowning in a liquid silvery shimmer. 'You are gonna be okay...'

Athis took a deep breath of air and closed his eyes, allowing the gentle light to caress his burning flesh. Slowly, droplet by droplet, the pain started leaving his body. Foolish as it might have seemed - shameful, disgraceful - he felt like a child drifting into serene drowsiness at the sound of a lullaby... knowing, that no matter what, there would always be someone close at his side; someone loyal, and tender, and caring...

He jolted awake as a tiny cold speck landed on the bridge of his nose, followed by another, and another - rainwater sprinkling over his face as the thunder overhead growled like a bear stirring in its winter den. Scrib looked up at the overcast sky and rounded her mouth into a tiny, concerned 'o'.

'Oh my, I need you to stay somewhere dry while the spell is doing its work,' she said, clasping her hands on her chest; her elbows as she did so flew apart like the wings of a hen fussing over her young. Glancing around, her eyebrows knitted in deep thought, she suddenly widened her eyes and smiled to herself; then, she moved over to where Athis' head lay, and leaned over him, her hair hanging down in a silken curtain, so that the ends of the pale-gold threads tickled his face. It was so strangely enjoyable, the sensation of her hair brushing against his cheeks...

'I am sorry, sera,' she said, closing her fingers round his wrists. Was - was the foolish child apologizing for touching him? Did she mistake the quickening of his pulse beneath her fingertips for anger? 'I need to move you under the carcass'.

Trying hard not to pant or not to let out any strained groans - afraid of revealing how hard it was for her to drag him across the grass - Scrib helped Athis get underneath the shelter of the dragon bones; then, she squatted next to the two wolves she had killed earlier and, with a loud, wheezy intake of breath, took out the small knife she had been issued, along with the sword, when joining the Companions, and began to skin the bodies. Her movements, though shaky, were more precise than Athis expected; he squinted at her in silent wonder for a while, propping himself up on his elbows, and then called out,

'I didn't know you could do this'.

She looked up - as always, looking somewhat disoriented by the sound of his voice. The tips of his pointed ears twitched a little as he strained himself to make out what she was saying in reply.

'When I was little, my father made... let me watch him making his hunting trophies. Stuffing animal pelts. He thought it would... make me... make me less squeamish'.

Her voice trembled, and the last words sounded unbearably sob-like. Did that girl really had to whimper at every childhood memory? So, her parents had mistreated her - what of it? When he was a boy, it had not exactly been sunshine and comberries either. A skinny, half-starved little elf, crawling ever westward out of an ashen wasteland - utterly lost without a family or a place to call home... But you did not see him crying every few minutes!.. He had every right to be annoyed - and yet, in his heart of hearts, he scorned himself for every fit of frustration with Scrib; as if it was something wrong!

Having skinned the wolves, Scrib spread their pelts over the dragon's ribcage, so that the rain could not leak through. Nestled inside this makeshift tent, Athis slowly began slipping away into the familiar dozing state. He figured that, even with magic's help, wounds like his would take a couple of hours to close completely. A couple of hours of sweet, blissful rest - finally pausing for breath after all that fighting, and travelling, and worrying... Lying on the ground in the warm, dry semi-darkness and listening to the gentle patter of the rain, while Scrib kept watch outside...

'Scrib! Get in here!'

Athis had rolled over to one side and poked his head through the dragon's ribs. By now, the gentle drizzle had strengthened into a real downpour, smudging the outlines of the rocks and hillocks at the side of the road and turning them into faint grey blurs, lost in the folds of a billowing wet veil. The air was fresh and heady with the smell of moist soil; the invisible great bear in the sky kept growling, and every now and again the surrounding drab grey turned into a scorching, blinding white at the flash of lightning.

Scrib sat leaning against the glistening bones of the dragon's tail, her shoulders hunched and her chin buried in her knees - a piteous, shivering little lump, exposed to the merciless lashes of the rain's silvery whips. The sight of her bowing her head meekly, no doubt drenched to the bone and freezing, made Athis' heart contract. The little thing was definitely making him go soft; oh, how Skjor and the others would laugh at him if they saw him melting away at the sight of a whelp in the rain! But the others were not here, were they?

'I'm f-fine r-right here...' Scrib spluttered, rubbing her forearms and forcing a small laugh.

'No you are not!' Athis snapped. 'Climb inside! Right! Now!'

With a stifled, timid sniff, Scrib got up and squeezed inside the dragon's carcass. As the rough, tarnished, moist leather of her armour pressed against Athis' bare skin, he could hear her inhale abruptly, sucking in her stomach - such as it was.

'There is... not enough room for me...' she choked, her voice hardly louder than the whispering rustle of the rain outside, her back squished against the dragon's ribs, her knees almost reaching up to her chest - struggling with all her might to keep out of Athis' touch.

By the gods, he could almost hear the frenzied beating of her terrified little heart!.. He did not really have to be surprised, though - a shy, innocent child like her, lying in an enclosed space side by side with a man that she had barely touched before... A man that was devoured from within by an intense flame, lit up by this impossible, dream-like proximity; a man that was inebriated by the fresh smell of her wet hair... B'vek, what was he thinking?! He had done enough to hurt and frighten his little Scrib already. He had to let her know - let her know that she would never come to harm when he was near.

'There's plenty of room for both of us,' he said sharply. 'Stop huddling up like that!'

Blast it all, why did his words have to differ so much from what he was thinking?!

'As... as you say, sera,' Scrib whispered, allowing herself to ease the tension in her body.

As she stretched herself, she suddenly found her head dangerously close to Athis' chest. He felt her freeze in hesitation once again - and in a swift, forceful gesture, laid his hand on her shoulder, forcing her to lay herself down. Her skin almost scorched his; the child was blushing a shade of crimson that was about as deep as Athis' eyes. He smiled a fleeting, tick-like smile, and slowly, almost timidly, began to stroke her hair. He had expected the light, fluttering movements of his hand to stun her as his kiss had done - but instead, it seemed to soothe her. After a while, she nestled into a more comfortable position, placing her bony, icy-cold hand next to her flushed cheek, and drew a deep sigh of content. Closing his eyes, Athis moved his hand back to her shoulder. This time, his embrace was slightly tighter, and to reassure Scrib that he meant no harm, he decided to talk to her. And, for once, he made a point of mulling over every word to make it sound as gentle as possible.

'So - you killed this dragon...' he murmured softly, tearing his sticky, drowsy eyelids open and watching Scrib rub her cheek against his chest hairs. She stopped the instant she realized he had his eyes on her, though; and by the gods, he wished she hadn't.

'I... I think I did,' she glanced up at him, the look in her eyes apologetic for some reason. 'I... I stabbed it, and it sort of set itself on fire...'

'I wish I had seen it,' he sighed.

And after a short pause, finally mustered the strength to say what he had been meaning to say all along,

'I know it took you a lot of courage, Scri... Sveta. To strike down the dragon. To face Molag Bal. Even - even to fend off those wolves. Maybe - maybe the old man was right about you after all'.

She clenched her fist, her fingernails scraping his skin. Her heart was now hammering against him with a force than made him want to cup his hands around it to calm it down.

'Do - do you really think so, sera?' she asked breathlessly.

'No,' he replied, irritation returning to his voice. 'Sera does not think so. Athis thinks so. That is my name, and it's about time you learned to say it! Just - just don't start crying again!'

She squeaked like a mouse caught between a cat's claws - and then, as though in delirium, began whispering his name, over and over again,

'Athis... Athis... Athis...'

And for the first time since he met her, her voice rang with a sound that was nothing like the echo of suppressed tears. It rang with laughter.

 

***

 

At long last, Sveta's feverish whisper trailed off into silence - and then, there was nothing left in their world but the sound of the rain and the soft pulsing of their blood as they lay side by side, keeping each other warm. They had no way of knowing that, just as Sveta had spoken Athis' name aloud for the first time, somewhere beyond their cozy little tent, in the depths of the grey haze, a tall standing stone, the largest of the group crowning a cliff at the side of the road, was suddenly cloaked in a piercing blue flame which soaked through its very core, bringing out the outline of the constellation that was carved into the stone's surface. The sign of the Lover.


	4. Chapter 4

This had to be the best job the Silver-Bloods had assigned Atar. All he and his men had to do was stroll about that rickety old excuse for a mine, flexing their muscles and shoving the workers out whenever they got too itchy to crack the rock. It was only a matter of time before the stubborn old native gave in and sold the land. Sure, right now he was not exactly cooperating; something about his rights and extortion and some such rot - but soon, very soon, he would see reason. After all, there was no way that a hairy barbarian, with a tongue-twister name and funny drawings on his face, could do something useful with this pile of dirt. The Silver-Bloods, on the other hand... Ah, if they got hold of this tiny, smelly cave, they would start up yet another huge mining operation and make it fill their coffers with even more gold. And when the Silver-Bloods' coffers were getting filled with gold, so was Atar's coinpurse.

 

'We are in control of this mine. No sudden moves'.

At the sharp, harsh sound of his Redguard underling's voice, Atar snapped out of the daydream about the drinks and wenches' affections the Silver-Bloods' reward money would buy, and hurried to check what was going on.

His men were gathered in a semi-circle opposite the entrance, their swords bared and pointing at the two strangers that had just entered the mine. Atar raised his eyebrows in mild, slightly disdainful surprise. The intruders did not look like miners; they carried steel swords and were clad in somewhat tarnished, blood-splattered armour - so he figured that the native must have dared to hire mercenaries of his own to try and regain control of the mine. But pff - just look at them! Did the stupid savage really think these two would be any match for Silver-Blood enforcers? Well, the wiry, red-haired Dark Elf looked fierce, but he could easily be overwhelmed - and the girl... Atar chortled to himself. Just what kind of a mercenary was that? A walking toothpick, with floppy fair hair and terrified, saucer-like grey eyes! Why, even the weakest, the greenest of his men would land her to the ground with a single punch! Really, the Reachman was grasping at straws.

'You the leader of this... gang?' the Dark Elf asked gruffly, sizing Atar up with those narrowed demon-red eyes of his.

'I am an honest sellsword in the employ of the great clan Silver-Blood,' Atar replied with a slow smirk, his fingers dancing casually up and down the sheath of his blade. 'Has the native hired you lot to try and have his way?'

The Dark Elf pursed his lips.

'We are with the Companions,' he said, mimicking Atar's gesture. 'We have business of our own with the leader of this community. But he refuses to talk to us until this... matter is settled. So - why don't you gather your men and go back where you came from?'

'P-pretty p-please?' the girl piped in shakily from behind his back.

This faint, half-stifled squeak made Atar let out a spluttering guffaw. Ysmir's beard, they were so pathetic it was almost adorable! Did they seriously expect him to believe they were with the Companions? A filthy ash-born and a whimpering little girl with a runny nose? Please!

'Not gonna happen,' Atar snorted when he managed to catch his breath. 'You two sods have to be more convincing than that to make us budge'.

The Dark Elf shot a quick, dagger-like glare at the girl, who flushed a vivid pink and bit into her lips.

'The whole town wants you out,' he said through gritted teeth, turning back to Atar. 'Leave. Now'.

So, this pointy-eared blighter dared stand up to him, a mercenary chief backed up by one of the wealthiest, most influential families of Skyrim? The sensation of his own power flowing through his veins in a warm, tingling, wine-like wave, Atar leaned forward and, flexing his lower jaw, gathered up enough spittle to land a well-aimed shot on the Dark Elf's boot.

'Let's see you make me...' he drawled. '...Grey-skin'.

Ah, how Atar enjoyed watching people squirm after an insult! How deliciously gratifying it was when the blood drained from their faces; when their pupils dilated to tiny, pinpoint dots; when their skin filmed over with perspiration! He could not keep from leering when the elf's eyes flared up a bright, piercing red, and he tore his sword out of its sheath. And when the wretch drew himself up to his full height and aimed a strike at him, Atar burst out laughing again.

'Bring it on, ash-eating scum,' he said, throwing his sword arm forward to block the Dark Elf's blow.

'Athis, please,' the girl mouthed, hovering her shaking hands about half an in inch away from the elf's strained arm muscles - as though she wanted to pull him back but was too afraid to do so. 'We promised Ainethach we'd avoid bloodshed!'

'You stay out of this!'

Without looking, the Dark Elf used his free arm to push the girl away. She lost balance and dropped to her hands and knees, yelping as the stone grazed the skin off her palms.

'Sorry to disappoint you,' Atar jeered, dodging one of the elf's enraged blows after another. 'But your little twitch isn't gonna stay out of this'.

As he had expected, his men had interpreted his words as a signal to join the fight. Three of them closed in round the girl, in a tight, suffocating steel circle, not letting her as much as try to get up - while the rest flanked the Dark Elf.

'Don't kill them,' Atar commanded, as the grey-skin fell back and switched his attention to the mercenaries on his left and right. 'Just let them bleed real good. So we can take them to the native and show him what happens to folks that go against the Silver-Bloods' will'.

By the gods, he was so smart! This was a brilliant, simply brilliant plan! If this did not convince the savage to sell, he did not know what would. Perhaps he could ask Thonar for a bonus for such a remarkable spark of genius?..

 

It was a bit of a pity that the Dark Elf kept Atar distracted, so he could not watch his men beat up the girl. But, well, that little dance the grey-skin did, trapped among mercenaries like a wolf cub that had found itself in the middle of a mammoth stampede - it was also good fun. And Atar did hear her screaming, so he did not miss out completely. Ah, what ridiculous sounds she made - quiet at first, but then louder and louder... So delightfully shrill that it made Atar recall that night when he got this huge cut for beating some sense into an old farmer that refused to pay the Silver-Bloods their 'Forsworn protection money', and then got skeever-piss drunk and set a Khajiit merchant's tail on fire. Oh, did he get a laugh out of that cat's frantic meowing! The girl yowled in almost precisely the same way; Atar knew he could always trust his men to follow their orders in the most proper way possible.

But the funniest thing of all was not as much how the girl screamed as how the grey-skin reacted. So far, he had managed to dodge most of the blade thrusts aimed at him, and the fight had barely left a mark on the heaving mass of hair, muscle and sweat that his body was turning into - but every time the girl shrieked in pain, his face grew sort of distorted, and his eyes welled up with tears (Yes! Tears! Was there anything more laughable than a grown man crying?!). As if he was the one being hit. Honestly, Atar was getting more kick out of that sour, pathetic grey mug, with the knitted eyebrows and twisted lips and all, than out of a good swill of Skooma! Hilarious! Simply hilarious!

Naturally, being too busy blubbering over the girl's screams, the elf soon lost his focus on the fight, and there came a moment when Atar finally managed to shove a sword through his bared stomach. The grey-skin made one of those loud gurgling noises that were like music to Atar's ears, and sank to the ground, clutching his wound and glaring helplessly at the mercenaries. One of the men grabbed the elf by the hair, pulling back his head, while another tore at the straps of leather that protected the grey-skin's chest. The elf drew a deep, wheezing breath, which ended in a long cough, making blood stream out of his mouth; his fingers twitched weakly, but beyond that, he made no attempts to fight back. The mercenaries lifted their fists for the first strike - but Atar gestured for them to wait.

'Before you set to work,' he said, noting to himself that he sounded like a bloody schoolteacher, 'Let's see what the others have done'.

The three men that had been handling the girl stepped aside, displaying the fruits of their labour. Atar nodded in approval. His underlings had done a fine job - just what he needed to give the native and his miners a good scare.

They had a cut a hole in the girl's armour - which must have been easy, because the mouldy old piece of hide had had very little to hold it together in the first place - and so everyone could see that the little wretch's chest was now one huge, swollen bruise, so dark that her tiny white hands almost glowed against it as they circled across the bloated skin, trying to cover small, bloodied breasts. Her face, too, was puffed up and raw with deep cuts; there was a bit of loose flesh dangling off her lower lip, and her right eye was almost invisible in between two crimson folds of skin. Trembling all over, she glanced around wildly, like a captured animal. When her gaze met the Dark Elf's, she pressed her elbows more tightly against her body, as if protecting herself from the cold or something, and tore apart her lips, which were sticky with drying blood. Atar rolled up his eyes, sensing an upcoming mushy scene.

His premonition turned out to be right. Small rivulets of tears snaking down her face, she whispered hoarsely,

'Athis...'

And the Dark Elf responded, in the same half-strangled voice,

'Sve.. Sveta...'

Scoffing at this tearful little exchange, Atar aimed a kick at the Dark Elf - and then froze, dumbfounded, uncomprehending.

The grey-skin's eyes were still chained unblinkingly to the girl's - but their colour was gradually beginning to change, like that of a newborn weapon being shaped in a blacksmith's forge; from red, to bright gold, to piercing, scorching white. And from his eyes, the dazzling, fire-like glow spread across his face and down his body, making his skin look like ashes that have suddenly sprung aflame again. The mercenaries that were holding him jumped back, yelping in pain, as the golden fire licked at their hands, and their flesh grew raw and blistered, cracking and oozing blood.

The elf straightened up slowly, spread out his shoulders and, walking a straight line as though in a trance, strode towards the group that was gathered round the girl. The three men stared at him in dumb horror; his face completely blank, his movements abrupt and unfaltering, the elf drew them close to him in a terrifying, nightmarish embrace - and held them until they stopped writhing. The girl had crawled away as best she could and was now looking on at the scene, her forehead sweating as if in a fever; the smell of the three bodies that dropped down by her side, charred limbs sticking out at odd angles out of the mass of melted armour - the sharp tinge of seared flesh made her retch uncontrollably, and she looked more pathetic than ever before. But now Atar was not quite in the mood for laughing at her.

The rest of the gang fled, not waiting for their turn to be burned to a crisp. Waving their arms wildly through the air, bumping against one another, they raced towards the mine entrance and began squeezing through all at once, shoving with their knees and elbows, desperate to get out into the open, where the night air was fresh and heady after a recent rain, and there were no burning elves to grab at them and drag them down into a raging sea of pain.

Presently, Atar decided to follow them - this was definitely not what he had signed up for when accepting the job from the Silver-Bloods. But he did not manage to get far; stubbed his toe on one of those bloody rocks that were jutting out in all directions, gleaming faintly in places where the ore veins shot through them. A small stagger, a quick curse, a moment lost. A moment - a fleeting fracture of a second... but more than enough for the elf to catch up with him. As the flaming fingers dug into his back, Atar though he heard a sound. A shrill, throbbing scream. It sounded a bit like the wailing of the girl, and of that Khajiit with his tail on fire, and of the Reachman farmer, and of gods along knew how many others that he had killed or maimed while doing contracts for the Silver-Bloods - but it was not any of those sounds. It was the sound of him dying.

 

***

 

When the mercenary chief slumped down at Athis' feet, the elf, too, lowered himself to the ground, panting. The pulsing glow around his body faded with a soft hiss, like that of a campfire when a traveler pours water over it - and after a while, the wound in his stomach became visible again. Sveta, who had not taken her eyes off Athis for a single moment, despite all the violent spasms in her throat, gasped and dragged herself up to him, preparing to cast a healing spell - as best she could in her condition and with one arm shielding her breasts.

'I hope you are not expecting a thank you,' Athis snarled faintly as the already familiar honeyed light soaked through his skin. 'It's partially your fault, you know. You could have stood up to those thugs yourself! You could have fought back when they surrounded you! You could have used that Fus thing! But no, you had to curl up into a ball while they beat you to a pulp! And after you did so well in the last skirmish! What is wrong with you?!'

'I... I am sorry...' Sveta mumbled, chewing at her mangled lower lip. 'They pressed so close... I... I couldn't breathe... I... I try to be brave, I really do - b-but so much is happening so fast... The bandits, the blood, the cage, the d-dragon... It's all... so...' she gulped, 'So... over... whelming... I guess... I guess I... couldn't be brave any longer...'

The last white-gold sparks, which had still been burning in Athis' eyes when Sveta began healing him, now died away completely; he gave a slight start and passed his hand across his forehead.

'B'vek...' he groaned, screwing up his eyes and shaking his head from side to side. 'What am I saying?! It has been so long since I last called upon my ancestors to aid me in battle... Their wrath was too strong for me to handle - and I turned part of it on you... And you,' he grabbed Sveta by the wrist and pulled her hand away from himself, trying not to look at what was beneath her other arm, 'You should be healing your own wounds. I think I can handle being sliced up every few hours'.

Bruised as her face was, she still attempted to smile at his words - and that small, distorted, pain-filled smile made Athis' head swim with a foolish, giddy happiness.

'Just for the record,' he added on the spur of the moment, 'Bravery isn't something you blow out and light up again like a candle. It's always there, inside you - though sometimes you choose to act like a stupid n'wah and forget all about it'.

 

***

 

It surely was a sight that the people of Karthwasten would not forget for a long, long time. First, as they sat, watching, waiting in silent apprehension on the porch of the village hall, they beheld part of the mercenary gang that had been terrorizing their community - the thugs shot out of the mine like bottle corks and sped off into the night, without stopping, without pausing for breath, their eyes bulging out like... well, like freshly boiled eggs (that was what Lash the Orc muttered to herself). And shortly afterwards, the fleeing Silver-Blood enforcers were followed by the two Companions that had come to the village in search of their missing friend. And they, too, made quite a spectacle - waddling side by side, eyes cast down, the Nord girl repeatedly casting a healing spell on herself to try and erase the markings of a recent beating and at the same time to keep her bare chest covered, and the Dunmer supporting her, with his arm wrapped round her shoulders and his cheek pressed against hers.

Slowly, without a word, the elven man and the human girl went up to Karthwasten Hall's porch, under fixed, unblinking stares of Ainethach and his miners; then, the Dunmer lifted his head and said curtly,

'Atar is dead. Now will you talk to us?'

 

***

 

With a long, deep sight of content, Athis laid down his knife and pushed away the empty plate. Thank the gods for proper meals - life's small treasures that a wandering warrior had to learn to appreciate.

The miners of Karthwasten had really outdone themselves in their expression of gratitude for dealing with the Silver-Blood thugs. Of course, knowing the clan that had hired Atar and his men, reinforcements were bound to follow - but for now, the village folk preferred not to think about it. They were just happy to go back to normal life, free of Atar's menacing shadow. And this overflowing, carefree happiness materialized in the form of home-brew healing potions, which were generously poured into the throats of Athis and Sveta; and wild rabbit stew, courtesy of the gruff she-Orc, which was poured, just as generously, onto their plates, in helpings fit for a giant; and torrents of information about Torvar, helpful and otherwise, which was poured into their ears - most generously of all.

As it turned out, the hapless Nord had indeed passed through Karthwasten, on his quest to seek out the new Sybil of Dibella, and had found out that a local girl, rumoured to be touched by the gods, had been recently swept by a neighbouring Forsworn clan into the wilderness - most likely, into the abandoned, half-ruined tower not too far off from the village, which the savage rebels had turned into their redoubt. Torvar had valiantly set out to rescue the child - declining any help from her father, who was ready to cleave his way through the Forsworn to get to his little girl - and was not heard from since... So now, by the looks of it, it was going to be Athis and Sveta's job to clean up Torvar's mess after him, and save both him and the girl. If they were still alive, that is.

Placing his hands on the table, Athis started getting up - a little clumsily after having an ample meal and recovering from all those recent wounds. He was in a hurry to get away from the table mostly because his train of thought had left him overcome with guilt; really, just look at him, sitting back and enjoying the aftertaste of tender rabbit meat and thick, greasy gravy - while his friend and the kidnapped child could likely be inches away from death...

Sveta had to be feeling the same way; after the healing magic dissolved most of her bruises and the she-Orc had generously provided her with a clean white shirt, too large for her skinny little self, she had not joined her fellow Companion at the long, heavily laden dinner table - instead, she had gone over to a far-off, darkened corner of the Hall, where the missing girl's parents sat huddled together. She had been comforting them almost during the entire meal, while Athis was casting curious looks at her now and again, munching greedily.

Watching her come up to those poor souls, squat in front of them so she could look up into their eyes, and take the weeping mother's hand in hers... Watching her try to speak but instead join the devastated miner and his wife with a sob of her own... Watching her embrace them, as tightly as she could in her crouching pose; watching her blend together with those two mourning figures... All of this had made Athis recall a job he had once been sent to do in Riften. Upon entering the city, he had been accosted by a priestess, a kinswoman of his, brandishing a handful of Mara's Warmth leaflets. He had always thought that he and his Shield-Brothers were doing the people of Skyrim far more good with their sword arms than all the priests with their sermons - so he had shoved the nagging woman aside and gone on his way. He remembered her calling after him scornfully, 'Of course, you warrior types are not interested in reading anything unless it has pictures!'... And the sight of Sveta clinging on to the two villagers, weeping together with them for their lost daughter, had suddenly made Athis think that if there was a pamphlet on the of worship Mara with pictures in it - the pictures would have to show Sveta. His Sveta. His Scrib. His sweet, kind, gentle Scrib...

Eventually, Athis had impatiently called to Sveta to join him at the table, and she had gotten to her feet, meek and obedient as always, and, with one final lingering glance at the hapless couple, trotted over to him and perched herself at his side. She was still sitting there now, bending over her plate and playing with her food. As he was getting up, Athis got a good view of her hair, cascading down her shoulders and draping her face in a golden curtain - and in the bright firelight, he caught a glimpse of what he had never noticed before. Streaking through that smooth mass of gold, there were long, wiry, silvery-white threads.

'What - What is that with your hair?' Athis called out sharply, yet again sounding harsher than he intended.

Sveta jerked her head and looked up at him with a nervous, apologetic stifled giggle.

'I... I... I have a few grey strands,' she mumbled, blushing. 'I know they're awfully ugly...'

Athis brushed her off with an impatient gesture.

'Was it - was it me?' he asked in a demanding tone as he loomed over her, making her shrink into a quivering, fretful lump. 'Something I said? Something I did? Speak up, girl!.. I...' his voice faltered momentarily, 'If I gave you grey hairs... I will never...'

He finished with two short, gasping sighs, each of them standing for a word - 'forgive' and 'myself'.

'Oh, no, no, no!' Sveta blurted out, rounding her eyes. 'They appeared before I met you... I was c-crossing the Skyrim border, and there was a fight between the S-Stormcloaks and the Imperials, and I g-g-got caught up in it, and...' she swallowed a lump in her throat and dug her nails into the skin round her thumbs till it began to bleed, '...And they took me to an execution... And... laid me on the b-b-block...'

His stomach contracting painfully, Athis placed his hands on Sveta's shoulders. Sweet Azura, an executioner's block?! He was not sure that even the Siblings from the Circle would be able to handle something like that - let alone little Scrib. He mentally pictured the poor child lying, face upwards, staring straight at the headsman (who in Athis' mind looked a little like Atar), the reflection of his axe's glint dancing in her tears - and as the image grew more and more vivid, his chest swelled up with overwhelming, stifling, almost wounding affection towards his blundering little apprentice. He bent down towards her and, lifting one hand, wove his fingers through her hair; now his movements were much bolder than during the embrace inside the dragon's carcass.

'I swear to you,' he breathed, gazing straight into her eyes, 'That for as long as I live, you will not be getting another grey hair before your time'.

She smiled in silent, half-stunned gratitude - the smile hovered over her parted lips, still not completely healed after the beating, like a butterfly fluttering its wings over a blood-red mountain flower, ready to fly off and disappear at the slightest move of the onlooker. Perhaps if he shifted even closer, he could trap that smile, claim it for his own, taste it?..

She did not shy away from him, did not shiver or grow tense - even though his face was now almost brushing against hers... A sharp tingle of elation shooting through him, he tore his lips apart - and stumbled back, cursing. He had sensed that there was something stuck to his upper lip; little specks of meat and gravy, most likely. Nerevar's blood, he... he had had food stuck in his beard throughout his emotional little speech! What a ludicrous sight he must have made - no, repulsive even! - giving an oath to protect Sveta with bits of rabbit dangling off his face! He wiped his mouth clean with an abrupt, slap-like movement, groaning with frustration. He had never felt so stupid, so humiliated! And with Sveta watching, too! He could feel her eyes on him no matter how he twirled around on the spot - bewildered, questioning...

'Stop staring at me!' he spat, choking as the grey of his neck reddened slightly with embarrassment. 'Get a move on! We have a Forsworn redoubt to clear!'

 

***

 

We are about to enter the tower. Now, remember - the Forsworn are dangerous adversaries, and if you allow yourself but a moment's distraction from the battlefield, their spiked swords and frost spells will end your life before you can say 'Oh d-dear'. I need you to stay alert. I need you to stop blubbering.

Yes, I know it is my fault - I shouldn't have snapped at you back at the village hall. But look - just because I am cross with you, just because I get angry so often, doesn't mean I bear ill will. I... I care about you, more deeply than I will ever admit, and I want you to know that I will always be there for you. I stabbed the miserable wretch that wanted to violate you; I dragged you out of a stream of blood; I burned Atar and his men alive for daring to hurt you - and I will do so again, and again, without hesitation.

I know I will never say all of this aloud - but there are other ways I can show that you can always, always rely on me. See my hand reaching out towards you? Feel my fingers closing round yours, reassuring you? Hear me let out a battle cry as the first Forsworn attempts to bar our way? Come on, little Scrib - join me. Your people are renowned for their battle cries; let yours ring loud and clear, set your voice free, let it lash at the very sky... Yes, yes, louder, little Scrib, louder - show that ragged n'wah that you are not afraid! For there is no reason why you should be.

I know, little Scrib, I know that there are things in this mess of a world that might make you feel lost and small. Pain. Darkness. Loneliness. I may mock you for your fears - but deep, deep down, I still hold a memory of fleeing from the very same shadows that are now haunting you. My pride will never let me tell you this - but I was once like you. Timid, insecure, weary of always being alone. An outcast, a vagrant without a home, an unwanted, unwelcome orphan tossed into the world of outlanders. But then, I discovered what it is like to have a Shield Sibling. Someone to aid and protect you and make you stronger. Torvar, bless that drunken fool, would say that our Shield Brothers and Sisters keep our backs as dangerous as our fronts - but we both know what he really means, right?..

 

I knew you had it in you! You have felled that Forsworn just like I taught you. A good, clean strike, straight into the heart. Let me wipe the blood off your blade. You are feeling sick again, aren't you? It will pass. I promise. I cannot say this aloud, for fear of seeming too soft, too weak... But gods, I can almost hear the words rattle against my teeth. 'Shh. It's all right. I am here'.

Look, look - there are more coming. Fewer than I expected - Torvar must have thinned their numbers somewhat - but still hostile, still ready for battle. But do not their savage glares and their threatening poses stop you.

Keep advancing, do not fall back. Steady arm, keen eyes, honed reflexes. Do not think about the blades and the clubs and the bows that are raised threateningly into the air. Do not think about the hostile magic that they are lighting up. Think about the blows you are going to land. Think about the way the Forsworn will topple down at your feet; about how strong you are.

For you are strong, my little Scrib, no matter what you or I might say otherwise. It is going to take more than a few half-naked savages to bring you down. And if you do fall - I will catch you and put you back on your feet again. You can do this, little Scrib - tear through their ranks and enter the tower. I will be at your side. Always.

 

Making progress, little Scrib - you are making progress. If only you knew how insanely, foolishly happy I am to race up the worn stone steps of the tower, passing through room after dimly lit room, side by side with you; to guide your hand and to watch you fight off our foes; to stand guard in case you are overwhelmed, and to shield you from danger just as some Forsworn s'wit aims a blow at you...

Every strike you make is more confident than the next; gradually, you stop shuddering whenever the shadow of a Forsworn glides across the floor, and flinching at the taunts they fling at you. I can sense the fighting spirit within you spreading its wings - still faltering, fledgling-like, but growing stronger, ever stronger.

By the gods, I have misjudged you. I feel searing anger flare up within me - anger at myself, for despising you as I once have, for treating you like a nuisance, like a pain in the neck that I had to endure just because Kodlak Whitemane had had some sort of vision when he talked to you... I fear that, yet again, I will vent out this anger by mistreating you - thank the Three for the pillager that has popped up in front of me; I can set the rage loose by crossing swords with him...

We have explored almost the entire tower, and there are still no signs of Torvar or the child. I would say that if they are still alive, they will most likely be locked away somewhere on the topmost level, hard to access - and almost certainly guarded by a Briarheart.

I fought a Briarheart once, when one of the local mining communities hired the Companions to solve the eternal problem of the Reach – that is, to deal with yet another Forsworn attack. You must have heard the dark legends about how these... creatures come to be; they say the foul Hagravens remove their hearts and replace them with enchanted thorns - this unnatural magic makes the Briarhearts almost unstoppable... very strong, gifted in magic, and knowing no remorse or fear. But know this, little Scrib: if we do have to face one of these abominations, we will face it together. Shoulder to shoulder. And then let's see it try and defeat us.

 

***

 

For the first few hours, Fjotra had been crying, and calling for her Mommy and Daddy, and telling the men in rags that she had done nothing wrong - nothing that deserved a punishment of being snatched away from her bed, and dragged all the way up a scary old tower, and tossed inside a cage with a heap of mouldy straw to lie on and cracked bowl with water set in front of her as if she was a little doggie. Or at least, she thought she had done nothing wrong.

Some people around the village said that those dreams she had been having, the soft, gentle voice that she had heard a few times, whispering in her ear when she was alone in her room - that it made her... not quite like the others. Maybe they were just being nice? Maybe what they really meant was that she was crazy - a little freak that had to be locked up, far, far away from normal people? Maybe Mommy and Daddy had gotten tired of her talking to herself and walking round the house in her sleep, and sent the wild men to take her away? The thought made Fjotra's face and eyes all red and burning, and time and again, she would peek through the bars of her cell at the man in a scary, face-concealing fur mask, who was pacing round and round, doing something that she did not understand, and ask him tearfully to tell her if what she thought was true - but he refused to talk to her, and eventually, she stopped crying and pleading and curled up on the musty floor, trying to drift off to sleep, listening to silence with a faint hope that the gentle voice would return and say something to comfort her. At this point, she did not feel hurt or sad or even hungry - just empty. So very, very empty. The voice could have filled that emptiness - but it never came.

She spent many hours lying like this - though it might have been days, or years even, for all she knew - and lifted her head only when a big, hairy Nord suddenly burst into the spacious, fire-lit hall where her cell was, and leapt at the scary man, waving a sword that had traces of something red and very icky on it. But when the two clashed together, Fjotra quickly dug her face back into the rancid straw, wrapping her arms round her head to block out the sounds of the struggle - which still kept throbbing inside her head, forming a sort of scary melody together with the beating of her heart.

After a whole bunch of all that clanking and panting and cursing, the door of her cell swung open, and something large and heavy thudded down at her side. She sat up and peered at the grown-up that had joined her behind the bars, a sparkle of curiosity lighting up in her dim, weary eyes, and then fading away again. The Nord had a long, unkempt beard, bloodshot dark-blue eyes and a whole net of deep scratches running along his brawny arms; he smelled of grown-up drink and the chilly air outside.

'Darn it all,' he muttered, ruffling his hair. 'That was some mighty brew... I am still not myself. Can't even block a blow properly. That savage disarmed me so fast that Athis would laugh at me if he knew... Wonder why the fella didn't up and kill me on the spot, though... Oh, hey, kid,' he turned to face her, his lips drawing apart in an apologetic smile, 'Fjotra, right? Looks like we're cell-mates now. Sorry about that. The plan was kinda to save you. But I've, uh, had a very, very rough day. I usually kick the bad guys a... aside much better. Honest'.

'You - you came to save me?' she asked faintly. 'Did the folks at home send you? So they want to help me? They don't think I am a freak?'

'A freak? Nah! I was told...' the Nord drew closer to her and raised one finger with an air of great importance. 'Yer a Sybil'.

'A S-Sybil?' Fjotra echoed. She had no idea what a Sybil was, but from the way the Nord looked when he said that, it had to be something pretty impressive. Like a mage, maybe. 'But I am Fjotra - just Fjotra!'

He opened his mouth for a reply, but at that moment the scary man raced up to the bars of the cell and barked,

'No talking! I am trying to prepare for the ritual!'

He was standing so close now that Fjotra was able to make out that he had a hole in his chest, red and mangled and so deep that your arm would sink in it up to the elbow if you tried to poke it inside. And inside that hole, fixed by leather straps, was a large, jagged thorn, pulsing faintly like a beating heart. The sight made Fjotra turn away, gagging, and the big Nord put his arms round her in a tight, protective hug. They sat in this pose for a long, long while, till Fjotra finally sank into drowsy oblivion.

As sleep enveloped her, she dreamt that she was nestled in the paws of a big, cuddly bear, who sat on the top of a giant rock overlooking the whole of the Reach. There were the Northern Lights blazing over their heads, gold and green and red; swirling, shifting, they shaped themselves into the image of a woman, tall and very beautiful - but kind of bad, too, because she had no clothes on the upper half of her body, and Fjotra had been told that it was bad when you walked around not dressed properly. She strode over the clouds, her glowing hair billowing in the wind, scattering handfuls of large, fiery flowers; they floated slowly through the air, forming giant letters that hang over the valley of the Reach - a short word spelled with ghostly blossoms, right across the sky. Fjotra had recently started learning how to read, so with a little effort, she managed to figure out what the letters were saying.

'SOON'.

 

***

 

Fjotra was wakened by the sound of the thorn-hearted man's voice, rough and mean and very, very frightening.

'It is time. Make your peace, Nord. You are about to lay down your life for the cause of the Forsworn'.

The Nord stirred; Fjotra could hear a rumbling growl somewhere deep inside his chest.

'What do you mean, lay down my life? You challenging me to a duel or something? Well, give me back my sword, and I will see what you are made of!'

The scary man laughed, making Fjotra whimper and cling on to her cuddly, bear-like cellmate.

'A duel? No; your kind do not deserve this honour from the people of the Reach. You will be the human sacrifice in the ritual I have been preparing. The child next to you is a gifted seer. She will serve us well as a Hagraven'.

Fjotra let out a shrill squeak of terror. She had heard stories about the Hagravens - the women of the Reach often used them to frighten naughty children. So that - that was what the wild men wanted to do to her? To turn her into an ugly, smelly, wheezing thing with claws, and feathers, and evil, bottomless black eyes? And they wanted to - to kill the poor, poor Nord to do this?

She pressed herself against the grown-up's chest, trembling all over with hysterical sobs - while he clutched her tightly and roared in anger,

'Ysgramor's underpants, are you crazy?! She is just a little girl! You can't do this to her!'

'We can, and we will,' the scary man replied. 'We will do this, and so much more, to drive your kin out of our homeland'.

'Do you love yourself so much that you refer to yourself in the plural?' a new voice rang across the chamber - low and raspy, of the kind Fjotra had never heard before. 'You are the last Forsworn in this tower. All your warriors are dead'.

The scary man whirled around to find himself face to face with another man, who was just as scary. His ears were large pointy - Fjotra realized that he had to be an elf - his skin was the colour of the jagged rocks in the wilderness, and his eyes burned like coals. But standing next to him, was a pretty, fair-haired Nord lady in an oversized white shirt, all covered in red splatters; she glanced around the chamber, and when her eyes met the little girl's, she smiled at her - softly, warmly, just like Fjotra's Mommy. That was the kind of smile the grown-ups give children to show them that there is nothing to be afraid of - even if they might be a little bit afraid themselves.

With an angry, hissing whisper, the scary man moved his fingers in a very odd sort of way - so that they grew all blue and glowing and tiny snowflakes started dancing round them. The elf nodded reassuringly to the pretty lady, and she charged at the scary man before he could cast his snowy magic. She slashed at him with her sword, so he had to lower his hand and whip out his own weapon, a long, spiky club (Fjotra shuddered at the thought of how it had to hurt when something like this hit you). While he was distracted, the elf attacked him from behind, twisting his arm round the scary man's neck; they sank to the ground, struggling, rolling over one another like two puppies - only puppies are cute, and those two men were far from it. Finally, the elf managed to pin the scary man to the floor, hovering over him, his legs scissored round his body, his sword raised for a strike - but the scary man was not giving up; he had jerked his arm upwards and closed his fingers round the elf's throat. The tighter he pressed them together, the weaker the elf's grip became; finally, the sword rattled down to the ground, and the elf's head began to droop down limply. The scary man let go of the elf, making him drop to the floor like a rag doll; got to his feet, swaying a little - and lit up his spell again... maybe to finish the elf off? Feeling that she was unable to watch any more of this, Fjotra dove into the big Nord's beard, gripping at his arms and sobbing weakly. And then, there came a loud, enraged scream, no a real battle cry, like the ones you hear about in stories - and the voice belonged neither to the elf nor to the scary man. It was the pretty lady.

 

***

 

By the Eight, was that really Scrib? The little matchstick Athis like pushing around? If there wasn't a child clinging on to him, Torvar would have cursed his head off. He simply could not believe that he was actually watching the little whelp rush over to the Briarheart, take advantage of him still being a little weakened by the struggle with Athis, shove her sword straight through his chest, splitting the thorn that gave him his life force, and then even give him a little kick when he sagged down to her feet.

Maybe - maybe it was a vision? Some sort of lasting side-effect of his hang-over? Torvar shook his head like a wet dog and scrutinized Scrib as she was healing Athis and helping him to his feet; the way things were turning out, he was half-expecting her to kiss him or something. But no – all the whelp did was tremble with shock over what she had just done, and stammer,

'A-Athis... I think I k-killed a Forsworn Briarheart...'

'That you did, Sveta,' Athis replied as soon as he was able to breathe regularly again.

Wait - they were using each other's first names now? Torvar must have missed out on a lot while he was passed out. A lot in his friend's life - and his own.

'He... He was still recovering from fighting you,' Scrib mumbled, blushing, as Athis was searching the Briarheart's body for the key to the cell. She seemed to be apologizing for acting like a normal warrior – now, that was good old Scrib all right.

'We make a pretty good team, you and I,' Athis replied, with a... smile? Now Torvar was really confused. That elf did not know how to smile! Had Scrib taught him to do it? But, as far as he knew, she didn’t know how to smile either! And yet, there she was, grinning – a little goofily – back at Athis and waving to Torvar and the little girl, who had stopped hugging him and was now sitting on the floor with her legs spread out, staring ahead and sniffing.

At long last, Athis fished the key out of the Briarheart's armour, and he and Scrib went over to unlock the cell. As soon as the lock clicked, and the metal door creaked open, Scrib stepped inside and swept the girl into her arms, stroking her hair and whispering,

'Oh thank the gods you are okay! Your parents were so worried about you!'

The elf, in turn, lashed out at Torvar, sounding like his cranky old self (which made the Nord even more convinced that that smile exchange must have been a figment of his imagination).

'You drunken lout! Explain yourself - right now!'

'Fine, fine,' Torvar said, wincing at the sound of Athis' voice and shifting away from him, because those grey fingers were dangerously close to his throat. 'So I go out with our friend Sam and have a little fun - and then I wake up in the Temple of Dibella, of all places, and I am like - dude, where is my staff?'...


End file.
